


(Gratuitous hurt Roger fic)

by ClaraCivry (Kat_Of_Dresden)



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018)
Genre: Accidents, Angst, Blood and Injury, Fainting, Fever, Gen, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Major Character Injury, Nightmares, Sickfic, Small Explosions, Whump, caretaking concerned band, hurt Roger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2019-08-22 07:44:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 50,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16593734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat_Of_Dresden/pseuds/ClaraCivry
Summary: I'm sorry, I had to.Here's a fic where Roger is sick and the band is worried about him. Short but sweet.1. Fainting   2. Falling  3. Fever  4. Bleeding  5. Plane crash 6. Plane crash II 7. Nightmares 8. Appendicitis9. Mystery not-feeling-good 10. Broken arm 11. Drowning 12. Allergy 13. Car crash 14. Chicken pox 15. Kidnapped 16. Band fight 17. Spiked drink 18. Chronic abdominal pain 19. Shot 20. Coma 21. Hypothermia 22. Asthma 23. Gash + intoxication 24. Mugged 25. Migraine 26. Seizure 27. Delirium 28. Panic attack 29. Blind 30. Aphonia (no voice) 31. Hostage 32. Fallen 33. Concussion





	1. Chapter 1

It was twenty minutes before the concert and Roger's world was shaking. The room he was in was spinning, wildly, out of control. He closed his eyes to make it stop, but even with his eyes closed the world kept spinning. He didn't understand why this was happening - he slept enough, eaten properly the previous day. And he'd been okay, no reason for this sudden attack of light headedness.

Maybe it was the pressure. They had been releasing albums and going on tours practically non-stop, and in the meantime they had to come up with ideas for the next album, for more songs, material that was better, more original, stronger, hit after hit after hit. The crowds wer larger, and the expectation was at an all time high. Still. this didn't usually affect him. He was having a great time, enjoying the music they were doing, fulfilling a dream and have the time of his life.

So that wasn't it. It had to be something else. The truth was, things were going well. Sure, he got teased relatively often, be it for his womanizing ways or for his not-that-polished writing skill, but it was never hurtful, and he often teased back. It was just how they were, their... electric personalities at work. But it wasn't stress or anxiety or anything like that... It probably meant that he was sick.

Which would explain why the world seemed to go from very hot to very cold all too suddenly, why his head was pounding in that odd way and why he hadn't been able to even look at food in the last few hours. It explained things. But there was no time, there were thousands of people waiting for them, for their music, for a chance to escape the boring routine and get to live a magical journey... This people had probably been looking forward to this, and no sickness would prevent him from doing so.

It was his job and his passion. No sudden sickness was going to stop him from performing, from giving all these people his best.

He could and he would.

It was a good thing that he sat in the back, that Freddie was so eye-catching that nobody would look at him, see how much he was struggling, how flushed he was, how glassy his eyes were. They didn't need to know. In fact, while he was playing, he almost forgot about how terrible he was feeling. Nobody knew anything was amiss, because he delivered flawlessly.

But then the concert ended and it all came back. Roger went as quick as he could, sometimes having to support himself in the wall, to his dressing room. And there, after everything, after doing his job as he wanted to, he simply passed out, collapsed on the floor.

*

They had to talk with one last journalist who was supposed to get some post-concert photos and impressions but they couldn't find Roger, which was odd. In fact, the blond had been a bit odd the whole day: quiet, almost serious, which was nothing like him. Brian had seen him nearly stumbling to his room after the show ended and had been confused.

They hadn't drunk anything before the show, and he seemed fine while they were playing... Something was up, and the fact that he hadn't shown up for the press only added more to it.

"I'm really sorry, but I was asked to get some pics of the whole band just after the concert." The young man with the camera said, concerned.

"We'll go get Roger, won't we, Brian?"

Freddie said, taking his bandmate by the arm.

"He's in the dressing room - but something was up with him."

"He was quieter than usual, wasn't he?"

The room wasn't locked and they opened it after knocking a couple of times and getting no reply. The sight that greeted was a terrifying one, something that scared them and made them gasp.

"OH NO!"

"Roger!"

Their drummer was on the floor, passed out, lifeless. He'd hit his head with a table and there was a small pool of blood forming under the head. Brian immediately knelt next to his bandmate, held his head softly and tapped his cheek.

"Hey, hey wake up." Nothing was happening.

"I'll go get help." Freddie said, running away. Roger was still unmoving, still passed out. They kept asking for a reaction but there was none.

The journalist was dismissed and in a flury of words and panicked looks and concern, the in site medic was taken to where Roger lay, still unconscious.

"Has he had collapsing episodes before?" The medic asked, assessing the situation.

"NO!" There was a chorus of voices. They would have known... they would have noticed.

After some painfully long couple of minutes, blue eyes opened to the sound of angry voices and a sharp pain in his forehead.

"Wha....?"

All the band was there, and there was relief in their faces. Oh, he was laying on the floor for some reason.

"Why.... why am I on the floor?"

"You passed out, darling. Scared the hell out of everybody." Freddie said, looking terribly concerned.

Roger felt a bit too self aware, and tried to sit up. At least the world didn't seem to be spinning anymore.

"Sorry... sorry about that."

"Are you feeling better now?"

"Yeah, actually, yeah. It was some some dizzy spells, but now everything feels better. Except for the hole in my head.." He smiled but the others still looked worried. They let the medic clean the wound and cover it (fortunately it didn't need stitches) and then left, recommending rest and to contact a doctor if it happened again.

"I'm sorry about this, I just..."

"Can I stay with you in your hotel room tonight? I feel I'm not going to be able to get any sleep if I don't see you there, you know, sleeping and not... something worse."

"I... I guess."

Eventually everyone appeared on the hotel room, the three of the others room were empty while Roger's was full of people. A room full of people who were uncomfortably sleeping: Deacie on the couch, Brian on a nice armchair next to the wardrobe and Freddie next to him, on the bed but on top of the covers. It was... pleasant.

"You can call us your personal medical detail." Freddie had said, half-joking, half meaning it. "Here to make sure you don't injure yourself anymore."

And there was a soft kiss on his injured forehead.

With friends like that, with a band like that, even bad day were good days. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by Vesnylka. Apparently this incident happened on the filming of the video if tie your mother down. Probably totally inaccurate but hey, it's a fanfic of movie loosely inspired on sth that did happen. But a fanfic anyways. Hope you guys enjoy!!

The video had to be spectacular, because this was one of their strongest themes, and they needed some visuals that would reflect that. They had to put into images all that power and strength, all that intensity. There would some games with different types of lighting, there would some pyrotechnical tricks here and there.... And of coruse dancing, and lots of movements and maybe even some smoke too. The audience was used to glorious shows when it came to Queen and this video would be no less.

There was no reason to suspect that anything would go wrong – they were a big enough band by now that they could get the best equipment available for their videos, only best quality, great machines operated by professionals. Things had been carefully planned and rehearsed so they need they fewest shot possible, because recording videos, especially complicated ones with lights and effects was expensive. But now, after all the careful planning they were ready.

They were in their flashy video outfits, perfectly in the mood, a hundred percent decided to give their all, as they were used to. The band members as well as the crew were focused on what was coming, on what their moves were, on what came when. Moves, beats, lyrics, microphones, lights.. All in place. No room for failure, no room for messing up.

But then it happened. Just as they were shooting the very beginning of the video, something that wasn't supposed to happen did. One of the explosions had an unexpected consequence – it didn't seemed to be anything important in the beginning, just one of their usual effects. For like half a second, people continued with their routine, but then there was the sound of something (actually, someone) falling even above the music and their drummer was not in his place anymore. By some mistake, the explosion had thrown Roger off his seat and onto the floor.

Freddie turned, startled by the noise. And then his saw Roger's seat but how he wasn't there anymore, even if he'd been there a second ago – and he realised that that had been the noise he¡d heard: Roger hitting the floor after being blown up by one of their effects. The drum set was whole, so it probably hadn't been so bad... but it had been bad enough to throw a whole man off his seat. Shit.

Little by little everyone realised what had happened and stopped what they were doing. The music stop, the lights stopped and everyone turned back. Someone in the pyrotechnical departments was cursing and aplogising profusely. And they saw Roger thrown on the floor and it was a very scary moment because their firend could be seriously hurt. The recording stopped, the video suddenly forgotten.

In that split moment of uncertainty, thoughts were running wild in everyone's head. Deaky was looking back and regretting every time he'd teased the drummer. “What the hell is wrong with him liking his car? People enjoy driving we shouldn't have given him such a hard time!” It was no use now, of course, and it would probably be forgotten in in a while, but it that moment it was terribly important and terribly distressing.

Freddie cursed everyone who had anything to do with that particular effect in that particular moment and in that particular place (including himself, of course), and let some panic wash over him. All this time becoming so successful, touring everywhere, they were young and ambitious and talented and they were having a great time being so successful... It never even crossed their mind that someone could get hurt. He actually thought he'd be fighting over the same things for many years to come, of course, and... no. Accidents were not allowed to happen.

Brian tried to figure out in that millisecond what may have happened, what could have gone wrong. Was the explosive put on the wrong place? Was it too potent? Was it supposed to go off in some other way? Weren't these things supposed to be checked before they received them? Who did these checks? How were they done? Knowing so little was gnawing on him, and the fact that this could a direct impact on the life of one oldest and best friends.... It was... bad, it was frustrating and was Roger even okay? This was so bad.

Just as everyone was holding their breath and running towards their fallen partner, the blonde head in the floor moved.

“I'm fine. Just... give me some time to....”

The thing was he wasn't all that fine. The shock of the explosion and hitting the floor like that weren't something that unimportant you could recover in seconds. But he could see that the others were worried, that everything had stopped... And he wasn't all that bad – there was no need to worry anyone. Someone was offering him a hand and he just accepted, got himself in a standing position.

“You sure you're fine?” An incredibly concerned voice that Roger still had trouble recognizing (god, he was so dizzy) asked him.

“Yeah, absolutely.” He did his best to smile, and shake off the fright and pain.

People could breathe better after that. It had just been a small incident.

Still, there was some hugging and the rest of the band members went to personally one by one to make sure he was, in fact, ok. There were some hugs, that hurt a bit, but it was ok. Of course it was. He was glad to be in one piece, and he was a bit touched to see the concern and the relief in the other's faces. A very clear picture of how much he meant to them, how deeply they cared about him. Sure, he might get a couple of bruises after the fall, but it was worth the bruises.

(The bruises from that fall lasted about a week, and seemed to be everywhere. In fact, for months, even years after, every time Roger saw a bruise he thought, huh must have been when I fell from the drums in that video. Some things... well, they leave a _mark_ ).

There were more and better checks on the effects after that. They were a tiny tad more careful with the things around them, specially those things could, indeed, explode.

… And everyone sneaked some quick looks Roger's way the next times they were recording, to see that he was still there. Just in case.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking maybe feverish Roger for next chap? Do tell me if you'd like to see and what you thought of what you've seen! Kisses and thanks to everyone who's commented and kudos'ed!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A disclaimer I am borrowing from tumblr user angrylizardjacket that I thought was appropriate:  
> his is 100% based on the fictionalised version of Roger Taylor played by Ben Hardy.  
> This is set before they meet Freddie, when they were still Smile.   
> ENJOY!

Roger had his head on the window of the van, where he was uncomfortably dozing before a gig they had in a bar. He was bouncing with every pothole on the road and letting out small moans whenever they passed a pothole. He'd been semi-sleeping the whole ride, and hadn't said practically anything since he was picked up. Brian looked from the driver's seat worriedly – this wasn't like Roger at all.

Usually before a show Roger was ecstatic, full of energy and jokes and smiles. Pure, undiluted sunshine and he kept talking about the songs they were going to play, or the place they were going to see, all the fans that were going to come. He talked and he was happy to be there, about to play. Excited. And although Brian felt that sometimes Roger got too excited, he enjoyed this energy, this liveliness. But that usual shine was gone today, missing. Odd.

“Hey, we're here.”

Roger hadn't even realised that he'd fallen asleep. He was just so tired.... exhausted. That entire week had been dreadful. All those exams and papers in uni, that he never seemed to have time to do properly, all those them relatives telling to focus more, and on top of that, he had caught some virus that was going around and had been getting worse and worse the last couple days. His head hurt, his stomach kept cramping and accepted no food, and all his muscles ached. He felt like crap.

But he'd been waiting for this day all that awful week, and there was no way he was missing out on it. Playing with the band was always his favourite part of the day, the week, of anything at all, and there was no way he would cancel a concert just because he wasn't filling hundred percent. No, he loaded on medicine and got ready for the concert, pretending nothing was wrong. Because nothing was. (Although the fact that he hadn't been able to stay awake in a relatively short car ride wasn't promising).

Roger got out of the car and was surprised by another cramp. Shit. He caught himself before doubling over and just stopped for a moment and bit his lower lip.

“You okay?” Brian asked, looking the most worried that his friend had ever seen him.

“Sure. Just waking up still from that car ride, I guess. I just didn't sleep much last night.” Well, it was as good an excuse as any. He'd pulled all-nighters before, because he had to study or because of band stuff. And then it would be normal that he'd be a bit off, but not bad enough that they'd cancel, or get someone else on the drums. No, this was his moment, and he would enjoy it. Of course he would.

(He didn't exactly... enjoy it. In three songs he messed up the beat, and in the last one he nearly passed out on his drum set. He felt awful and this unrelenting headache was even making him want to cry. Everything felt wrong, he felt wrong and the music felt wrong too. The bar they were in spun around him and he dropped the drum stick when he shouldn't have. With each passing song he only felt worse and worse and hated himself for being so weak. No, he really really did not enjoy it at all.)

**

When the concert finished, emotions were a bit low. Very few people had come to see them, and Tim had split fairly fast saying that he had other things to take care of. Roger still looked like crap, somehow skinnier than usual and with an odd flush to his cheeks, and an unusual brightness in his pale eyes- it was quite clear now that he was sick. He had a beer in his hand but had drunk very little. Brian decided to do something about it.

“Hey, this place is kind of dead, but I know an awesome club not too far, you wanna join me?”

Roger smiled.

“Sure.”

Of course, there was no club. Brian just intended to take his friend to his own place, maybe look after him for a bit. It was clear that Roger was sick, probably even worse than he was letting on, and Brian wouldn't be calm unless he knew someone was taking care of him. They were both very different people, but they had a shared passion and spent many hours together, playing, or just out at night. That blond idiot was important to him, and he was not going to keep preending everything was perfect.

Roger fell asleep again on the van and Brian drove around the neighborhood to avoid having to wake him up, again. But alas, he probably would be better on a bed, so Brian woke him up when they got to his building.

“Gosh, you're burning up!”

He really was. The fever had gotten worse after the concert (he was supposing to be resting, for god's sakes, not something as energy consuming as playing drums!) and it was tough to even keep his eyes open. All his muscled ached, and he had trouble remembering where or when he was. Everything was... blurry.

A only semi-awake Roger followed him to his tiny apartment, looking at everything in confusion.

“Why...where's the club?”

“You're sick, Rog. I brought you here to keep an eye on you, make sure you don't get any worse.”

“Didn't.... didn't have to....”

“Didn't I?”

There was a shrug and a wince. It was nice that he didn't have to pretend he was okay anymore.

“Ugh.... I feel like crap. I thought I could.. you know, ignore it, but...my head is killing me.”

“You have a pretty bad fever, buddy. But don't worry, there's a bed here waiting for you.”

“Sounds good.”

Brian led the blond to the bedroom and helped him take off his shoes and jacket, as he was fairly out of it. Roger just let himself be helped. The bed was like heaven after such a long, exhausting day (hell, even crossing the street was tiring when your body was going through such an ordeal) and it nice being taken care of. And then there was a blissfully cool towel on his forehead and he sighed.

“You could have said something earlier you know? It's not good for you to overdo yourself like that. Could be dangerous.”

There was a low hum. Roger only replied a few minutes later, with a very soft, broken up.

“Mum... mummy. I can't go to class tomorrow, ok? I...can't...”

“It's all right, honey. You don't have to – just go back to sleep.”

That night it was Brian's turn to stay up the whole time. Roger had fever induced-nightmares that woke him up screaming and crying, the beer made an unwelcome reapparance (Brian had had a bucket prepared just in case, but still it had been a pretty harrowing experience, with many dry heaves after and some tears in his band mate's eyes, and jeez he never thought he would describe Roger as “heartbreaking” but that lost flushed look when he couldn't stop heaving...wow. That poor boy. And to think he'd amanged to play all those songs while being this bad. Amazing) and the wet cloth had to be changed and reapplied many times.

The next morning, when Roger woke up he realised he was in someone else's bed, and try to piece together what had happened after the concert the previous night. There was some thought of a club and then a bed, and someone helping him and soothing him through his puking episodes and nightmares. He felt better now after that terrible night, a bit less flushed a bit more... grounded. Then he saw Brian slumped on a chair next to the bed and understood.

… that was a true friend.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Friends will be friends is heard in the background...  
> Did you like it?  
> Any ideas for next time?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by Vesnylka

It had been a long concert, and the last in a series of.... a lot. They had been in so many countries, and just the US was like whole world. And in each of them they had been their super energetic, enthusiastic selves: they had given it their all, everything that they had and more. Sure they were young and fueled by their passion for what they were doing, but still...

Sometimes, after a particularly intense concert, they then had to rest for a very loooooong time until they were back to their usual levels of energy. When there was a lot of people specially: they didn't just want to play for the front rows, they wanted to sing for each and every person that had gone to see them, for those in the back too, and even for everyone in the city who hadn't been able to buy a ticket. They wanted to leave a mark, even if it left marks on them too.

Roger's hands were bleeding. The drumsticks could be ungrateful mistresses, and they'd been going at an incredible pace. It hurt, and it hurt a lot, and the more he moved his hands the worse it hurt. But he couldn't and wouldn't stop, not when they were getting so far, not when this was his plan for the rest of his life. His hands would have to get used to all the abuse, and he would have to get used all the pain.

The drumsticks were red, the drum set had blood smeared on it too, and he was getting a bit dizzy. Probably just the hunger and exhaustion, nothing else. He could do this, he could do this and much more, of course he could, it was just a little pain. Maybe it would even give him something serious to talk about, something that wouldn't be relentlessly mocked.... _The pain in my veins.... drives me insane?_ Maybe he could work with something like that.

But now he had to sit down. The pain and dizziness combining was not a good thing and he didn't want to fall on the floor make a fool of himself. Sitting on the floor, he closed his eyes not trying to think about the way in which his hands were burning. But it was a lot, and after so many concerts, so many songs and so many hours up he was just....drained. And hurt. And he'd stained his new jacket with blood. For some reason, that made him terribly sad.

The whole world was going down around him, the blood making him even more dizzy, and....

“Darling, what are you doing on the floor?” Said Freddie's face on the other side of the hallway.

“It's nice and cool.”

Freddie decided to sit beside his friend. A moment of (relative) solitude could be nice before the madness of yet another post-concert party.

“Boy, am I tired today. I mean, my vocal chords are telling me to stop and yet here I am, unable to stop speaking.” Freddie said, in his usual playful tone.

“You're telling me.” Roger said, showing the singer his bloodied hands.

Suddenly all playfulness disappeared and Freddie looked terribly alarmed, shaking his head as if he'd just seen a baby deer drowning or something like that.

“Darling...”

“It's just until I get used to drumming all this much, I guess... And it's happened before, so...”

Freddie took one of his hands softly, looking at it with admiration.

“It looks like it hurts.” Freddie said, in almost a whisper.

“It does hurt, quite a lot, actually, but you get used to it. And when I'm playing it's easy to think about something else. It's when you stop that I realise how much it actually hurts.”

Freddie started shaking his head again, one side to the other, and whispering “no no no”s under his breath. Roger didn't know what to think, but at least it was a distraction from how much his hands hurt.

“Darling, this... this cannot stand!”

“I...”

“We have to do something! Your hands... your hands are a gift to rock and roll, Roger! Something invaluable, irreplaceable, and we must look after them properly!”

“I... Fred.....”

“And we must take care of you, too! What is this of you being hurting after every concert? Not tolerable! I'll have Paul call the best hand doctors in the world to look at your hands, and we'll get you some nice painkillers...”

“You don't need...”

“And in the mean time, I'll get some supplies and clean and bandage those for you, all right? Wait for me here! I'll be back in a sec.”

Roger didn't have time to say that it wasn't necessary, that he'd be okay. Freddie was already gone, as fast as he'd come. He was back in only about ten minutes, with a whole first aid case that he barely knew how to use. But when he started to clean Roger's hands he knew exactly what to do.

Freddie was suddenly exceptionally slow, gentle, careful, moving with precise movements to reach everywhere. He was completely focused on the task at hand (pun very much intended) and decided that the rest of the world had stopped existing. Roger's hands were a treasure, the things he did with them... Those beats were the base of their songs, and they would need those pale worn hands for many years to come.

And not just that. Those hurt hands were hurting Roger, who was just not a great drummer (THEIR great drummer), but a friend, despite their many... differences of opinion. And no friend of his would hurt if he had a say in it. So he was as gentle as he knew, and applied a healing balm before bandaging the hands, once again, carefully and gently.

Roger had been blissfully quiet for the whole process, maybe shocked, maybe just exhausted, blue eyes shining in that empty corridor.

“Thank you, Freddie. That...feels much better.”

Freddie smiled. No matter the fighting and disagreements he felt very lucky to have met Roger, and couldn't imagine the band without him.

“Just try to take care of yourself better, will you, darling?”

“Sure.”

They stayed sitting on that floor for a while, commenting the show, humming songs, remembering past days. Suddenly, the wounds didn't hurt as much.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought of dialing up the angst for next time? Maybe a plane crash or some drowning? Do tell me if it sounds interesting!


	5. Chapter 5

When Roger woke up, he was sprawled on the wet floor, and he couldn't understand how this could have happened. They were on a plane, weren't they? They were supposed to wake him up before landing and that way he would be able to prepare his things. But no. Something was wrong.

He coughed and every breath hurt. There was smoke in the sky, and the smell of fire. Something told him that this was no airport, that they hadn't made it safely to their destination. When he tried to move he was assaulted by the worst pain he'd ever felt. It was everywhere: in his head, in his chest, in his stomach, in in his arms and legs. It felt like a nightmare, the smell of gas, the fire, the pain. It couldn't be real.

Simply trying to sit up was hell. He couldn't move, but felt that he had to. He didn't know where he was, he didn't know what had happened. He could be in the middle of something very dangerous, next to something exploding, and he needed to see, but all his limbs and organs complained at the smallest movement, too badly scratched and bruised for regular movement. Still, after a great deal struggle, he managed to sit up and saw behind him the wreckage they had been in. It was so close, and it was burning.

Roger's eyes filled with tears and as he saw those flames and his midsection rebelled against him. With much pain, he vomited a couple mouthfuls of blood, and he held his midsection tightly as he wondered what had happened to get him caught in this forsaken hell.

 

**

 

_30 minutes earlier_

_All of the systems were failing. They had just lost their only remaining engine and were going to crash. There had been a depressurisation while the passengers were sleeping, which meant they probably hadn't seen the oxygen masks and were probably already unconscious due to hypoxia._

_But the pilot and co-pilot were not going to let them die so easily. The pilot try to slow their fall as much as possible, to get them as close to the ground without crashing. He probably wouldn't have time to get out before the crash but it gave the passengers more and better chances to make it out alive. He'd chosen a career that could end in death and knew it, they hadn't. They were just musicians._

_On the other side of the plane, the co-pilot (only other member of the staff) was ready to get those men out. The plan wasn't perfect but it would have to do: she would throw those lifesaver mats and then the men, when they were close enough to the floor, so they wouldn't get under the crash. They would have had more chances to land on the mats if they were awake and able to hold on, but they were all passed out. At least they were only four._

_When they were close enough, she opened the door and with a strength she didn't know she had she got the mats and men out and away, so that they would be able to at least, survive. She wasn't able to see where they'd landed, so she simply hoped for the best. But the best was not coming._

 

_**_

Still recovering from vomiting all that blood (and it hurt, his stomach hurt in a way he didn't think possible), Roger tried to get away, not to be consumed by the flames. They had been flying in some private plane and he'd fallen asleep. That was the thing he remembered. Where were the others? How had he made it here? The edges of a mat were some metres in front of him. Oh. It would seem that there had been an emergency landing of some sort.

He knew he had to get away, and he tried to stand up, but his left leg wasn't answering properly. Still, the fire was too close and he needed to find the others, so he walked through the pain, and just dragged the leg behind him.

“Guys? Anyone, help! Brian!! Freddie!! Deaky!!!! Someone, I'm here!”

There was no answer. Roger continued with those tortuous steps away from the wreckage. Everything in him felt broken, but he had to continue, he couldn't the flames take him. Just continue, one step, then the other, one step, the other, don't think about the overwhelming nausea, don't... And then he saw it. The neon colour of another of those lifesaver mats, some few steps in front of him. This meant that maybe another one of the guys was nearby too, maybe the they could help him walk, maybe.....

Forgetting his woes, he walked as fast as he could with his bad leg, towards the neon, looking intently to see if there was anyone.

“Hey!!! I'm here!!! Anyone?”

And then he saw it. Next to the mat, it was Deaky, but he was sprawled in a weird position, and his eyes were closed. There was blood coming of his head.

“...No.” Roger moaned, softly.

Luckily, the bassist wasn't dead, but he'd taken a bad blow the head when falling. Roger shook him and tried to get him to open his eyes, but there was no reaction. His heart did a painful leap.

“Come on, Deaky... You've gotta...We have to get away from the fire... I can't, I don't think I can move you, my leg...”

He was crying now, and the tears stung in all the abrasions and cuts in his face. Everything was wrong. The world was on fire, he didn't know where half the band was and the only one around was unresponsive, perhaps even dying.

“Don't leave me here alone.” He whispered, with a thin broken voice, as he fell on the floor again.

The pain on his midsection was worse now, and his stomach was swollen and tight... wrong. He still felt terribly nauseous and now it hurt much more to throw up, and if he was getting broken inside. Roger didn't know if anyone was coming, if there was anything he could use to contact someone... And he had no strength.

He hurt so very very badly (his leg, his stomach, his head, everything hurt) and he felt so alone and hopeless, trying and trying to wake his friend up and getting nowhere. The thought that these may be his last hours crossed his mind.

But no. He'd found Deaky and he was still awake, which meant that he could still get his friend away from the fire, somehow, in some manner. Awfully slowly and while in an excruciating amount of pain, Roger managed to put the bassist on top of carpet-like orange mat and just tried to move him by taking the corner. He had to get them both away from the fire, and to some help, no other thought could enter his mind, he had to get them...

He'd only taken a couple of hellish steps when the miracle happened.

“Can anyone hear me? Hello!”

A couple of tears of joy made their way down Roger's cheeks.

“Brian! It's me! We're here!”

And suddenly Brian was there, running towards them and apparently whole... Finally something good.

“Roger, thank god!”

Brian had been the luckiest of them all and landed on a small pond next where they had fallen, getting awakened by the water near instantly and avoiding impact with the cold hard ground. Getting to the others was another story, but the crash gave him a good idea. He'd found Freddie a bit out of it but whole except for a couple gashes and probably a couple of broken ribs, but looking for the other two had been agonic. (He found the body of the co-pilot too. It was... unspeakably sad).

He'd been so afraid that Roger may not had made it, he hadn't even wanted to entertain the thought and just went to look for the missing band members once he'd made sure Freddie was more or less stable and in a safe place. And now he'd found him – and he was alive.

There was a hug. Brian held on to his friend with all the force he could muster. _You're alive, you're alive, you're alive...._

“I can't wake him up.” Roger said when they broke the embrace, looking at the floor. Oh. John.... And he didn't look good. “I tried but I can't.”

Roger's voice was so unlike him broken, thin, almost drowned. Hell, all of him looked terrible: his face had cuts and scratches all over, his shirt was completely torn and he was dragging his leg. Besides, he looked awfully pale, sweaty, glassy-eyed. Brian checked on Deaky, made sure that he had a pulse and was breathing properly. He was alive too, even if the situation seemed bad.

“You okay?” Roger asked Brian, hopeful. At least not everyone was lost.

“Yeah, I'm fine, a bit wet and cold but good. Freddie too, I found him, he's awake, he'll be fine.”

Roger wasn't fine. Roger had tears on his eyes and an odd expression of finality in his pale eyes.

“You make sure they look after Deaky too, ok? I can't... I can't anymore.”

“Rog...”

“But... I'm so glad you found us. I didn't want to... die alone....”

“Roger, no!”

The pain was too much. His whole world was tilting and he couldn't hold on anymore.

“Roger, stay with me!!” A voice urged him.

“Sorry...”

“Roger, no!!”

The world disappeared.

Brian saw with increasing horror how Roger became even paler (gosh how was that even psooible?) and he started going slack, eyes rolling up. He caught him as he fell, still hoping against hope that it was just a dizzy spell. A passing moment of feeling faint.

“Roger, come on, don't...”

The fire raged, still, but Brian heard police and ambulance and firefighters coming.

“You'll be fine... You have to be...”

 

**

Mary had taken two flights and three different cars, but she finally there, where she should be. She'd been so scared when she heard about the crash...But then she was called from a hospital, and it was Freddie and he was at least well enough to be calling, so....

He was there, and relatively whole. She hugged him, careful not to jostle his ribs and sat next to him on the bed, incredibly relieved... But there was a sadness to his and Brian's face that told her something else had happened.

“The others?”

“Deaky's got a concussion. It doesn't seem too severe, but there could be side effects, lasting effects. Doctors say it's not bad though. They tell us it could be a lot worse, that he'll probably make a full recovery.”

Mary was afraid to even ask.

“Roger?”

This time it was Brian who spoke, and he seemed close to tears.

“He had internal bleeding. They had to rush him to surgery, and he was there for like four hours while they fixed all the bleeding and his leg and everything....”

“But he'll be fine?”

“The only thing they told us was that if he makes it through the night, his chances will improve. If.”

Somehow that ruined everything. They had survived a plane crash, they had lived to see another day, they were extremely lucky.....But no one could feel anything that resembled happiness, that single sentence running through their heads.

_If he makes it through the night._

_If he makes it._

_If._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked! Do tell me if you would be interested in a follow-up hospital episode.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follows chapter five. Would love to hear your thoughts!

When John started realising what was going on around him nothing made sense. His head was thumping and there was a constant beeping noise somewhere. This didn't feel like home, didn't feel like any tour bus or recording studio. This felt... odd, not the correct size, not the correct bed, not the correct temperature. He slowly opened his eyes and saw a white room. His head hurt, terribly but the pain was numbed out, as if it was sleeping, or far away.

And then he started to remember. They were in a plane, and they'd all fallen asleep. That was the last clear memory he had, them sleeping on the plane. Then there was only bits, sounds, pain. He felt like he remembered half a second on the floor, hurt badly, next to a raging fire. He heard a familiar voice asking him not to leave him alone. But he could have dreamed that. Now he was in a hospital, and Brian's scratched but relieved face greeted him.

“Glad to see you again in the land of the living.”

Brian called a nurse and a doctor that checked everything was ok with John. Apparently, he was recovering better and quicker than expected. That was good. If only he knew how he got hurt in the first place it would be better.

“What happened?”

“The plane crashed. We were thrown from it so we wouldn't... you know.”

“The others?”

“Me and Freddie are relatively fine, he has some broken and bruised ribs but he'll live. You guys were the worst off, you've been unconscious for over seventeen hours.”

John tried to process all that information. They had survived a plane crash. He had lost nearly a whole day of his life. Wow. But something was wrong... someone was missing.

“And Roger?”

Deaky understood in that moment: it had been Roger's voice in the wreckage telling him not to leave him alone, nearly in tears. Roger had been there in the middle of hell, and now Brian didn't want to mention him.

“Brian?”

The guitarist eyes had a sad air to them.

“Roger was the worst off. He's been in surgery for many hours, and now it's a waiting game, to see how he'll recover.”

“But he'll be fine, right?”

“Yeah, he'll just... need more time than us.”

No, there was something wrong with this, with Brian, with everything.

“Hey. You don't have to be softer with me because I'm injured.”

“Don't I?”

“Tell me the truth.”

“The truth is we don't know, Deaky. He lived through the surgeries and the night but his heart stopped in surgery once and he's not... recovering as expected. We're hoping for the best, of course, but... Did you know it was him who found you? Carried you away from the fire with a broken leg and all, asked me to make sure they looked after you.”

“Are we gonna lose him?”

“He's strong. He can make it through this.”

The hours after that felt like centuries, agonic, long, eternal. There were some good news of course, mostly concerning Deaky who was getting better sooner than expected (with a few headaches, but that was to be expected), and Freddie was good too... Really things weren't bad. There was simply someone missing. To be the day after a plane crash they were very good.

Roger wasn't getting worse, but he was getting better either. He should have been out of the intensive care unit by now. He was still there, connected to those millions of machines, pale as death. Making doctors frown and sigh. It was terrible, not knowing, but it was better than that knowing things couldn't be fixed. At least there was still hope.

Then there was the issue of the public, who didn't know anything. There was a crowd outside of the hospital, hoping to hear some news. They only knew that the plane Queen was travelling in crashed and that they had taken the survivors to the hospital. They didn't even know if they had survived, it could had just been the staff that survived. So there were tribute shows, there was speculation, people crying....

Brian and Freddie decided to get out and release a small statement, mostly to calm the people who were already grieving. There were lots of reporters and there was a round of applause and some cheers when they appeared. Everyone breathed, relieved. At least some of them had survived. Brian spoke, because Freddie didn't trust his voice not to break.

“As you know, we were involved in a plane crash. The pilot and co-pilot sadly died in it. As for us, Freddie and myself are still recovering from the shock and some minor injuries, but there's no reason to fear for our lives.”

“And what about the other two?”

“John and Roger were more seriously hurt than we were, and are still being treated. John, our bass player, is recovering from a concussion. Fortunately, it seems like he'll recover without any complications. Roger... Roger had many internal injuries, and is still in the intensive care unit, fighting for his life. We are... we are hoping for the best. That is all. Thank you for your interest.”

It was difficult, even the simple act of uttering those words. Freddie's teary eyes as Brian spoke about their friend where in every tv, and there was a shift. Now was not the time to mourn their fallen idols, but to support the hurt ones. Everyone was focused on helping them, in any way they could. They sent encouraging letters, little gifts. There were vigils, lit candles with pictures of Roger, every message of support that could be thought of.

The public, much as the other three, didn't want to lose their beloved blondie.

It was very much to and go for a while – Roger refused to get better, more stable, but he wasn't getting worse either, which was a good sign. Maybe he just needed some more time to recover from that hell he lived. Some rest. There were better places to rest than the ICU, but Roger had always liked drawing attention to himself, hadn't he?

He was finally released from the ICU five days later. He was only awake for short periods of time and still in a lot of pain, but he was getting there. The others even got to see his eyes open, even if for a very short time. It was enough. He was going to live and that was the most important thing.

It didn't matter how pale he was, how much like a corpse he looked – he was awake, and with lots of care he would be all right. It would be a long painful recovery, but he would get there. He had the care and attention of his bandmates (the fact that they had nearly lost him gave them a new appreciation for Roger) who didn't refuse him anything while he was still in hospital, and thousands of people out there wishing and hoping for him to get better.

Even from his hospital bed, with staples in his gut and a plastered leg, Roger smiled. He'd been so afraid to die alone, and he got to live, surrounded by people that loved him.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by an anon in tumblr

The dream was nearly always the same. Some elements changed, but most things remained the same.

He's playing the drums and the people around him start to laugh, pointing their finger at them and looking at him with judgy mocking eyes. He's doing the same thing as usual, he's doing his best, and yet the people think it's laughable. Suddenly his drumsticks disappear, and then his whole drum kit was gone, and he was on the floor.

The people around him turned vicious, angry and aggressive, and he didn't know why they suddenly hated him so much. He didn't understand why they wanted to hurt him, and only had his hands to defend himself. They ate him, they hurt him and when he was on the floor, in pain and confused, they left him, alone, thrown on the floor. He called for help, but there was no one. Everyone had turned on him. Nobody wanted him around.

He'd been expelled from the lives of all of those around him. And when they left... they probably wouldn't even remember him anymore.

He always woke with an utter sense of dread, of sorrow. Was it true? Did nobody want him around? Did everyone secretly hate him and was waiting for an excuse to beat him and leave him on the floor to bleed? Was he that bothersome, that annoying? Maybe he was, and he hadn't realised it. Maybe the others were just waiting for an excuse to be able to kick him out.

During the day the dream seemed stupid. Of course nobody would turn on him, they were his friends and family, the loved him for who he was. They laughed at his jokes, they complimented his music – and he did with the others. He had no reason at all to dream those things he did, and much less to fear that his dream would come true. He was a valued member of the band and of the musical industry in general. The nightmare was nonsense, and surely it wouldn't happen again now that he knew nobody hated him.

Only it did happen again, and then again and again.

A couple of weeks after Roger had become almost afraid of sleeping. He would drink heavily before going to be hoping for sleepless nights. He would tire himself out until he could no longer keep his eyes open, and some days he simply never went to sleep. At least this way he wouldn't have to see the faces of the people he loved laughing at him and then abandoning him after a beating. At least that way, no matter how bad he felt, he would still have them.

But he couldn't keep it up, because without sleep his waking time self was even more of a mess than usual. The dark shadows under his eyes made him look like a sleepy raccoon, and no make up in the world seemed able to hide it. He spent half of his time in the drums yawning, struggling to keep his eyes open. His whole body was asking him to go to sleep properly, but his head warned him against it. Remember what will happen if you do.

And it wasn't just sleepiness. Roger forgot things that he'd just been told and even when they repeated, it escaped his mind. He had trouble following a conversation sometimes, his head felt fuzzy as if there was a lot of cotton between the outside world and his head, and he couldn't process things correctly. He could reproduce old tunes, but found it almost impossible to learn new ones.

He was so tired, and sad and became angry at everything, even more than usual. He would snap over the most irrelevant things, he felt gloomy and desperate and his mood seeped on everything that he did, every conversation that he had. The days felt too long and the nights longer, and he was too exhausted to do anything properly. But he didn't want to bother the others with something as trivial as bad dreams. Nightmares were for children, and nobody had died from them.

But the others were very worried. They were concerned that something bigger may be happening, that maybe Roger was hooked to some drug that was doing all this damage, that he'd become depressed, that he had some secret that was hurting him badly, not allowing him to be his usual cheery self. Because he had changed a lot, and not for the good.

Now he was always angry, even more than usual. He didn't get ironies anymore, and he wouldn't accept apologies easily. Everything hurt him, everything made him mad. Sometimes he was just gloomy, who was very unlike. He was always energetic when they were making music, sure, complaining about everything, but you know, there. Alive. Being part of everything, even when they didn't want him.

Now he'd become a shadow of his former self. He looked like crap, too, which was something very uncommon for their own particular Adonis. Roger was a very good looking guy, he looked after his luscious hair and clothes – he liked to look good, and he knew he could pull off almost anything. But lately... his skin and hair looked... bad, he was always too pale and his eyes, usually pools of blue perfection, were red-rimmed, blood shot, too bright... He looked just so damn tired. And even if every time they asked Roger snapped, they had to do something.

So, they asked again.

“I told you guys, I'm fine, stop it.”

“You're not fine, darling, far from it. And we'd like you to see a doctor.” Freddie said, trying to soft and not awaken the beast.

“For a couple of sleepless nights? What am I going to say? Yes, doctor, very concerning, I'm sleepy. Just let me handle it, ok?”

And he stormed off.

Now he had to do something, something that would actually work so that he could go to the recording session bright and rested the next day and the others would have to eat their words. That way he would be able to focus on the new song, and remember where he'd left his green shirt. Yes, he would do something that would fix everything. No more sleepless nights. Not for him.

 

**

 

It was two hours after the time they were supposed to meet and there was no sign of Roger. They called his place and there was no answer. They'd wanted to think that this could possibly be a good thing, just him catching up on sleep.

“I'm going over there If he's just sleeping then fine, we let him sleep and postpone this.” Brian said. “But maybe something happened to him after he left, I have a really bad feeling.”

The others didn't argue too much. They also felt bad about the situation. Roger had angrily left the previous day while looking positively ill and now he wasn't answering when called. It didn't sound good. Alas, when they got to Roger's place everything seemed relatively... normal (except the fact that he'd left the door unlocked, but well).

The thing was that there was no mess, no broken furniture, no drug and alcohol bottles thrown all around.

And Roger was actually on the bed, on top of it and not under the covers and looking oddly lifeless, but apparently sleeping.

“We should probably leave then” Freddie said, whispering to not wake the blond.

“No, something's wrong” Deaky said, getting closer. “Roger? Roger!”

The way he was on the bed, the way his limbs were....

“Roger, wake up! Roger!”

Deaky jumped on the bed and softly slapped his friend's face, hoping for a reaction. But Roger didn't react to anything.

“He's barely breathing! I think he's unconscious, call an ambulance!”

Brian came out of the bathroom next to that room, pale-faced. There was a box of sleeping pills in his hand, and it was half-empty.

“Call that ambulance now!”

The ambulance got there in no time and in the hospital they pumped Roger's stomach, and asked a lot of unpleasant question about whether they thought Roger had done it on purpose, meant to hurt himself.

“I think he just wanted to sleep.” Deaky said, trying not to cry.

That afternoon, after the doctors left him, still feeling like absolute crap, Roger saw the scared and worried faces of his band mates and felt even worse. To have them find him like that, have to call the ambulance.

“Please, Rog, no more stalling. You scared the hell out of everyone. What's going on?”

It felt so stupid now, everything that had happened for a stupid nightmare. It seemed so unimportant, so irrelevant.

“I had this constant nightmare, that I was playing and you started laughing at me and... turned against me, and then left me, alone and beaten down. Every night it was same, and it was so vivid, I felt that it had actually happened, I had to remind myself... Anyway, I stopped sleeping to avoid it. Only slept when drunk. Then I got those pills, but they didn't seem to work, so I...”

“Well, it's good that you didn't do it on purpose, dear, but this can't go on like this.” Freddie said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“We need to get to the root of what's causing that nightmare, so that you won't have it again. Did something happen before you started having it?” Brian said, always the analyst.

“I... I don't think. Wait... I had a fight with my sister, on the phone. I felt so bad afterwards, but I didn't... I still don't know how to apologise...”

“And then you yelled at me, threw that chair my direction. I remembered that you said you had a bad conversation with your sister, and that you were on edge.” Brian said, suddenly understanding everything.

“Yeah, oh god, I forgot about that...”

“Could it be, just getting out a theory, that outside you were too proud to admit that you were wrong to yell at us and apologise, but your subconscious is feeling bad about it, and convinced that we'll all leave you because of that.”

Roger opened his mouth to protest, but that actually made a lot of sense. Ugh, he'd been raking his brains over this for over a month and this guy could get it in an afternoon. Typical. He rubbed his eyes, bit his lip.

“I am sorry about throwing that chair. I don't even know what we were arguing about...It was probably stupid, and you were probably right anyways. Whatever the case, I shouldn't have thrown it, and I shouldn't have sprayed you in the face that other time.... I sometimes can't stop myself. I'll try to be better, ok? Control my temper more. And guys, Fred, John, you too, I know I'm terrible some days and I... I'll be better. I'm sorry.”

“You're forgiven, darling. Now, we'll see if we can get a phone so you can tell your sister you love her.” Freddie said, and went to get it.

“And if something's bothering you, don't let it go so far, ok?” Deaky said, still remembering the pale unconscious form he found on the bed, Now that it was him who would have nightmares with that.

“Sure. Sorry – again.”

The next day, after making sure he'd apologised properly and made it up to both Brian and his sister, Roger slept like a baby, for once.

… And so did the others.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked! This got angstier than expected, lol. Any ideas for next time?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by Lucy and CarlyQ! This is set in the early 70s, so you can picture lots of long hair :)

 It wasn't much at first – just a dull stomachache that didn't matter all that much. The others had been berating him about been too much of a drama queen, so Roger decided to keep quiet and just put up with it to the best of his ability. It was just a stomachache, he had them before. They didn't kill you.

They were finishing some press and after they were going to have some drinks, party for a bit. He really felt like going out with the other three, just talking, having some beers. They weren't big enough (yet) that everybody recognised them on the street, they just got a couple of fans who wanted a signature or something. Yeah, some drinks with the guys sounded perfect, and no idiotic stomachache was going to stop him from having a good time.

Still, he took some aspirin that he found in the medicine cabinet and went out. He was young and durable, wasn't he? A little pain wouldn't stop him from going out.

They actually had a great time while they were out, and they talked about a lot of stuff. They talked about their plans for the future, for Queen, many and very big plans. They also talked about each other's strengths and how to reinforce them, which was a morale boost for everyone. And they talked about how good it felt when they were on the stage, and how lucky they felt to feel the people's love.

They discussed having an album with more songs by the rest of them, there was even a thought of an album with two sides: one for Freddie's stuff, another for Brian and Roger's. They even talked about getting the others to sing lead in some songs, because why not? In general, it was a great night, for their friendship and also for the band, and it was easy for Roger to ignore his increasing stomachache, although it had only become stronger and sharper as time passed.

In fact, during the night he had to excuse himself a couple of times to go to throw up in the toilet. He'd been feeling nauseous for a while, and what had been mild nausea at first had ended up with him being violently ill in the pub's toilets. Twice. Another day it would have worried him more but his head was full of other emotions, happy because his musical dreams were coming true, because he'd found some people that understood and appreciated him, even listened to what he had to say...

He just figured that the beers he'd drunk hadn't agreed with him and that was it. A slightly shameful I've drunk too much thing that nobody else needed to know about. So he just let it slide, and kept partying, doing his best to ignore the pain. At the end of the night he took a taxi with Brian and Deaky and just hoped that he would feel better in the morning.

Freddie had left with Mary but the other three decided to crash together to avoid having to give the taxi driver any more indications and just to save up a bit of money. Deaky, who was the most sober of the three, noticed something odd about their blond band mate: he looked flushed, too tired, almost ill. He imagined it had something to do with the alcohol and just reminded himself to leave some water next to Roger's bed to at least minimise dehydration. But he couldn't shake the feeling that something else was off.

Roger went to bed and desperately tried to sleep (it couldn't hurt so bad when he was asleep, right? And then it would be morning and he would feel better) but couldn't. He felt so bone-tired but could not sleep because the pain in his stomach was too strong, too sharp, too overwhelming for him to get some sleep. And he was still very nauseous although he was pretty sure he'd thrown up everything he ate.

He stayed in silence trying to sleep for like an hour, until his stomach complained again and he was once again in the toilet, throwing up and heaving. It hurt so bloody much, it was hard to even think. Shit. It was bad, but... No, he could wait until the morning, he wouldn't be some drama queen and wake the others. What would they do anyway? What could they do to help? Not much, probably. So he threw up again and made himself a ball on the toilet floor, holding his stomach tightly.

“Rog?”

Brian had been peacefully sleeping when his alcohol induced slumber collapsed. Sounds of retching awoke him, and whoever it was, it was bad. He sleepily walked to the bathroom with the open door, wondering. Still half asleep, Brian was surprised by the sight of his friend Roger all pale, sweaty and hunched on himself. This looked bad, he looked properly ill. Something worse that having had too many beers was happening here. He knelt on the floor, next to the drummer.

“Hey, what's going on? Are you sick?”

“I don't know what's wrong with me, Bri. My stomach is killing me.”

Brian put a hand on Roger's forehead and found it too hot. Great, so he was really ill.

“You have a fever. And not a minor one, either. How long have you been hurting?”

“Since this afternoon. But it wasn't so bad then.”

“And how bad is it now?”

“It's...the worst I've ever felt.”

Brian rubbed his eyes and tried to think clearly. Should he be calling an ambulance? Maybe Roger just had one of those viruses that go away in a couple of days. He knew he should be thinking more clearly, but he was still buzzed. The most important thing now seemed to be that Roger was getting worse very quickly, and that he was in a lot of pain. He had to do something.

“I'm going to call a taxi and we're getting you to the emergency services, ok? They'll give you something for that pain.”

Roger complained, of course. He was hoping to avoid the hospitals.

“No hospital, no... I... It isn't so bad, just get me some chamomile tea or something.”

“No.” A voice said behind them. Deaky, who had woken up too, and found that scene. “You're ill, you should get some medical attention.”

“He's right, Rog. You're burning up and you're hunched on yourself from pain. If we wait until morning it could become something serious.”

And so it was done. Deaky called the taxi while Brian helped Roger out of the bathroom. God, even walking was difficult now – he couldn't practically stand straight, he was in so much pain. In the taxi ride he only got worse. Brian held Roger's hand and told him to squeeze if the pain was too bad, while trying to soothe him. Deaky, on the other hand, felt terribly guilty. He'd known that Roger was sick but said nothing. He should have said something, done something, before things got so bad.

The Emergency Room was blissfully calm when they arrived, so Roger was seen by a doctor practically the moment they got there. A quick exploration told them that it was appendicitis, and they admitted him to get him ready for surgery, which needed to be now.

Roger was scared. A few shorts hours ago he was having some beers with his friends and now he was going to be cut open? General anesthesia, the whole thing? He said goodbye to the extremely concerned faces of Brian and Deaky, hoping that at least this way it would stop hurting. Hoping everything would turn out okay.

Freddie woke up, cursing whoever it was that was calling so soon.

“Yes?”

“Hey Freddie” It was Deaky's voice, and it was shaking.

“I hope this is a life or death situation, because...”

“It kind of is. We're in the hospital. Remember how Roger mentioned something about his bellyache last night? It was appendicitis. He's been rushed to surgery.”

“What?”

“He won't wake up for some hours still, so you don't need to hurry, but... thought you should know.”

Freddie's world stopped in its track, Roger's blue eyes and bright smile the only thing in his mind.

“Of course. Thanks for calling, dear. I'll be there in no time.”

Time passed awfully slowly. “No news is good news, right?” somebody said. Then Roger was taken back to his room, apparently everything had gone all right. There was a collective sigh of relief. Then it was just a waiting game, until the anesthesia wore off and they cold make absolutely sure that Roger was finally awake and whole again.

When Roger woke up he didn't know how long it had been, why did he hurt so much, where he even was. But there was a lot of people waiting for his eyes to open, and who smiled when they saw him waking up.

The pain momentarily forgotten, Roger smiled back. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by scorpius_cinnamon_roll and Raven

“Dammit Roger, it cannot be everything about you the whole time!”

They were right, he supposed. He could be sometimes a bit too... demanding. He enjoyed the spotlight, he liked the attention, and he knew that sometimes he could be a bit... too much. He liked his opinions to be heard, he wanted to be part of everything and for his opinions to be the ones that mattered.

But today it was Deaky's moment, they were learning his new song and doing the riffs and they had to be focused on this. But Roger couldn't focus, not on this, not on anything. He felt that something bad was going to happen, he felt... wrong. The studio was too hot, or too cold. He felt as if somebody was going to come and get them, I don't know, hurt them or something.

His heart was beating too quickly, and he was breathing too fast too, but he wasn't getting enough air, not enough. His head felt, odd as if he was far away from his body, and trying to get in again. Or some times as if it he were on a boat, a boat that was rocking wildly.He felt wrong, incredibly light-headed and he was having trouble to pay attention to what he was doing. He felt too dizzy, and kept messing up beat, sometimes he didn't even hit the drums.

“Roger what the hell?” Somebody was saying. “You can not do one single song without making it about you? I don't care if you went out last night and now you're not “feeling it”, you have to pull your weight! This is just uncanny, really.”

“Yeah, darling, today is not your moment, ok? Drum properly. Stop playing around.”

People were berating him, getting angry at him, which was only making him more anxious. He tried, and he his heart was in his ears, and he was breathing way too fast, but still.. It was hard, he felt so lightheaded but he couldn't say anything because that would just be him making everything about him, as usual, annoying demanding Roger who always wanted to be the protagonist, why don't you let Deaky shine for once, you bad person, you bad friend, you bad band mate...

“Roger!!” Somebody was screaming at him again, and he felt like crying.

“I just... I don't feel good.”

“Well, maybe you should have thought about it before going out last night, don't you think? And don't even think for a moment that you'll get out by pretending to be sick, you can try the victim card all you want, it won't work. No, friend, we've listened to all your whining, now you'll listen to ours. Learn the song, Roger. Do it properly. The way all of us are doing it.”

And so Roger tried with all of his might to focus, despite the increasing light headedness, despite his constant shortness of breath, despite the oddly strong pain in his chest that was somehow climbing to his shoulders, neck and even his jaw... But no. This was just him making everything about himself, this was just him looking for attention, as usual. The sooner he finished the sooner he'd be able to go back to bed to play the victim, so he focused on getting the song right.

When he finally did and they decided to call it a day, Roger could hve wept with joy. Normally he fought back when people nagged at him, but today he just had no strength. Something bad was going to happen, and it going to happen soon, and he couldn't do anything to stop it, and... Something bad did happen. When he stood up from his drum set, he just took a couple of steps and collapsed, the world suddenly disappearing.

He fainted in front of the others, and no one was quick enough to catch him.

**

Freddie loved Roger, he really did, but sometimes he could be a bit of a pain in the ass. He had a tendency to make things about himself, even when whatever it was had nothing to do with him. There were few bands in which the drummer sang, or proposed songs, or any of the things Roger did. And sure, it was a good thing that they had such an active band member but sometimes...

Deaky had been insecure about his new song even though it was good, and Freddie hadn't wanted anything to go wrong. He felt protective towards thei young bassist, and he felt that anything could make John decide that the song wasn't good enough and that he probably shouldn't have brought it. Freddie had been most afraid of Roger, and he'd been right.

Roger hadn't been criticising the song or the lyrics as he'd feared, but he hadn't helped either. He'd been absent minded, complaining about the heat or the air, saying that he wasn't feeling good. Making it about him, as usual, making it seem that his mild inconveniences were more important that getting the song done right. And then he started messing up the drums, when Roger never messed up the drums. Just so they would pay attention to him, he suspected, and told him so.

And then it happened. He was still a bit angry at Roger when he was leaving and heard a thumping sound. Roger had fallen face first on the floor, and hit his head. Brian and Deaky had been closer and turned him around to find him unconscious.

“Roger? Roger! Wake up, hey, wake up!” Brian said, softly slapping the face of the blond.

“He's so cold.” Deaky said, concerned. He noted with horror that the drummer's skin had a bluish tinge to it. “Call an ambulance!”

“His pulse is too slow... something's going on..”

“I'm calling the ambulance.”

Roger didn't wake up before the ambulance arrived, making everyone else very much on edge. They had been so awful to Roger when there may be something really wrong with him.. Something serious, something grave. They should have paid more attention to what he'd been saying, they shouldn't have assumed he was pretending not to feel good.

The ambulance came and then left with all the lights and sirens on. Freddie asked Brian to go with Roger on the ambulance because he didn't trust himself not to panic, not to cry and case a scene if Roger didn't wake up, if he didn't seem to improve. Deaky was already crying, so he didn't seem to be much help anyways. Maybe Brian would be able to hold Roger's hand steadily, say something comforting when he woke.

But he hated not knowing what was happening. What if Roger was dying? And the last thing he said to him was to stop playing around. But Roger hadn't been playing around, Roger had been properly sick and they thought about it. They complained about him not drumming properly. Oh, poor sweetheart, they needed to fix this. He needed to know that Roger would be okay, he needed to tell him how sorry he was. He wished to be on the ambulance, in that moment, to get that off his chest.

But the ambulance ride was no picnic, either. Roger had woken up and kept complaining that he couldn't breathe, that his chest hurt, with a thread of voice. The medics didn't tell him anything, just to try and be calm until they arrived. Why didn't they tell him what was wrong? Why didn't they say that everything would be okay? His only comfort was Brian's hand, but Brian hated him now, didn't he? The world was blurry and painful and he couldn't breathe.

They took Roger away, and then they had to wait.

Miami had gotten them a room in some fancy rich people hospital (mostly so they wouldn't be swarmed by fans in such a delicate moment) and things seemed to be moving fairly quickly. Still, it left the three of them time to think about what they had done, about what had happened.

Deaky felt so bad: it was trying to defend him that everyone got so angry at Roger. It was his song he'd been trying to perform while ailing from some mysterious but terrible sickness. Maybe if he hadn't called to present the song Roger would have gone to the doctor sooner. Maybe he wouldn't have got so terribly sick. He hated himself, the song, and the whole day.

Brian wanted to kick himself, slap himself, even flagellate himself. Why had he been so harsh on Roger? Why assume that he was pretending, that he just wanted attention? When Roger wanted attention he fought, he complained, he criticised. He didn't mess up the beat, he just changed it for something he liked better. He didn't say “I don't feel good.” And he'd known the drummer long enough to know that wasn't his way of getting attention. How had he been so blind? And how could he ever fix what he'd done?

Freddie was being eaten by uncertainty. He'd wanted Roger to stop complaining, but good god in heaven, not like this. The mere thought of him wanting Roger to stop was now bitter in his mouth. Yeah, maybe he would stop now, forever. Because he'd been sick and he told them, and they dismissed him. It was so wrong.

The doctor came a couple of hours later, informed them that Roger had something called a pulmonary embolism. A blood clot in a lung. It sounded terrible. Thankfully, they didn't need to operate, as blood thinner could dissolve it on their own, but Roger would have to stay in observation for a few days. It felt surreal. They'd thought he wanted attention, they thought he was being annoying and he had a clot in his lung. It was so wrong. That sounded like something you could die from.

They let them in the room a couple of hours after, and Freddie nearly threw himself on the bed. It was a very spacious room, with a big window and a very big bed, but all he could see was Roger. Roger, pale as death in that white bed, hooked up to a million IV's...

“I'm so sorry! Rog, dear, sweetheart, I'm so sorry we yelled at you, I'm so sorry we didn't listen to you when you said you weren't feeling good. So sorry!”

“Me too. I was... vicious, and you were sick. You didn't deserve that.” Brian said behind Freddie's teary face, oddly solemn.

Roger tried to smile, but it came out as more of grimace.

“This bed... is so big. I could use some... some company.”

Freddie took off his shoes near instantly and threw himself on the bed.

“Sorry we didn't hear you, darling.”

“Sorry... I'm so annoying... that you can't tell the difference.”

“No, no, no, none of that. You can't be sorry for anything now, ok? It's our turn. Isn't it, Brian?”

“I really am very sorry, Rog.”

“Join... us.” Roger said, indicating the bed.

“Are you sure?”

Roger nodded.

“Make me feel... that you don't hate me... anymore.”

Brian lay carefully on Roger's free side, and embraced him gently.

“I never hated you. I was mad, but I could never hate you.”

Roger very much enjoyed hearing that and enjoyed even more feeling his friends next to him, so warm and affectionate.

“You... too, Deaky. There's room for you here.” Roger said, nearly out of breath.

John didn't need to be told twice.

“Just so you know, I hate that song now. I was scared to death when you passed out. So so scared.”

They were like that for a while, in that big bed, all four of them joined together in a big embrace, a big mass of limbs and sorrys, and caresses. And they had no intention of ever letting go.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by Ltwillbush and Kiwi1996. Enjoy! Hope to hear from you!

Roger was loudly sobbing on Deaky's shoulder, making a lot of noise. But nobody would tell him anything because one look at his face and they were overwhelmed by pity and tenderness. Roger looked awful, still pretty as usual but heartbreaking.

They had been drinking and Roger had slipped on the ice on the floor, and landed face first. On his arm. An arm that apparently he couldn't move anymore, and an arm that hurt like hell. So while he was still totally intoxicated, he changed from the most happy person on the world to the saddest one. Every emotion was exacerbated, but mostly pain. Deaky had had to practically drag him to the hospital.

“It hurts so much....” He said, while full on sobbing. He also had some scratches in his cheeks and chin from when he'd fallen, making him look even more sad. He was quite a sorry sight, with his eyes red from crying and his face pale from the pain.

“Don't worry. You'll be fixed soon.”

But maybe Deaky was being overly optimistic. Because of the icy roads, there had been a lot of accidents and the emergency room was overflowing with people. Soon seemed to be an impossible feat, because a lot of people had been hurt and many of them were hurt worse than Roger. Which was concerning, because Roger could be hurt bad too, right? And he could hurt himself worse if he moved the arm in a wrong way or something like that...

So John just directed his friend to the only chairs available in the waiting room and put that blond hair on his shoulder and neck. Roger was cold and shivering, but his friend made sure that he got some warmth in him putting his scarf of Roger's neck, and asking another older woman who was waiting to please get them a coffee or tea from the machine.

“I would get it myself, but I don't want to leave him alone or jostle him too much.”

One look at Roger's tear stricken face and the woman quickly nodded. It had been nearly half an hour and Roger was still crying, making a mess of his face. The tears stung in all his scratches, and Deaky had to wipe away the snot because Roger's arms were useless, one hurt, the other shaking too much. There was still half molten ice and dirt from the floor on his clothes. He looked and felt terrible.

“There you go.”

The lady brought them a cup of tea, and looked at Roger with kindness.

“Why don't I go ask the people in reception if they can see to you soon? Sometimes a bit of insistence helps speed up everything.”

“Thank you so much, that's so kind of you. I know that Roger's probably not going to die from this, but...”

“He's suffering so much, the poor lamb. I'll see what I can do for you boys, all right?”

Roger was really suffering a lot. It was too cold, and his head was killing the combination of the alcohol and all that crying making a great ball of distress. And the pain from his arm was spreading everywhere and every little movement, even the smallest one made everything hurt horribly again. It just hurt so much, and it had been hurting for too long, and he didn't know when it was going to stop, there were so many people, what if he had to wait for hours and hours and hours while having to endure all that pain?

It was too much, and he was too tired and too drunk to stop himself from crying.

“What if they can't fix my arm? What if I can never play again? You guys will take someone else to play... play drums and forget me forever...”

“No, Rog.” Deaky said, using his gentlest voice possible. “We would find something else for you to do. You could always sing backup, we need you for the high notes, remember?”

Roger softly nodded, a bit comforted.

“And anyways, I'm sure they'll be able to fix it. These people can fix breaks where the bone sticks out, I'm sure they'll be able to fix yours too. And while you recover we can get some rest from recording! I really am going to enjoy the time off. I almost would want to thank that patch of ice, if it wasn't hurting you so much.”

Roger half smiled, before crying again. Every now and then Deaky would get out a handkerchief and patiently clean his friend's face, without a word. It was a bit unsettling because Roger was generally a positive sunny person, but commenting probably wouldn't help, so he didn't.

The old woman from before went again to ask when was the boy going to be seen. Her husband had been taken to the doctor after only ten minutes and this poor soul had been crying his eyes out and in terrible pain for almost an hour, with the only comfort of a friend who couldn't even move because he was supporting all the weight of his injured friend. It wasn't fair.

After a couple more hours and thanking the woman for her help, Roger was taken to X-rays. His arm was indeed broken, but it was a clean break, and it would probably heal in six weeks. There shouldn't be any consequences, any effects. Roger would have wept with joy if he had any tears left. Then they plastered his arm, gave Deaky a million indications and let them go. They took a taxi, and once again Roger put his head on John's shoulder.

That shoulder, that warmth was the only comfort in one of the most horrible nights he'd ever experienced. He'd been cold, in pain, he'd been so awfully sad and hurting.... and Deaky had been there, also cold, also not being able to sleep, and putting up with all his nonsense.

“I'm sorry I'm such a crybaby.” Roger said, with a very small voice. “I'm sorry you had to put up with me.”

“None of that, ok? You're allowed to cry when you break a bone. It's better to get it out, and I don't mind having to to listen. You're my friend, looking after you is never a burden. I do it happily.”

When they arrived at the apartment they had a surprise waiting: the others had prepared a great big breakfast to have together.

“We've even cut up the bits of toast and the cookies for you, darling, and we'll cut up anything else we need for you.” Freddie said, looking happy at his still pale-faced and red-eyed friend. “We will look after you for this next six weeks as if you were our own child.”

Roger wanted to cry again, but this time for a better reason. It was so nice to feel cared for, to know that he had people... It hurt a bit less.

The next weeks were complicated: Roger tried to do things on his own (I'm a grown man, I can manage with one hand!) and generally ended up hurting himself worse. He was too proud to be helped in such little things as putting on some pyjamas or cleaning the toothbrush after using it. Just making a cup of tea was an ordeal when you couldn't use your preferred arm. And he missed playing a lot, which often put him in a bad mood... The others knew to tread carefully. Generally, the help was met with “I don't need your help” kind of comments, until one time when he broke a plate and then broke down.

Deaky was there again, to hold him while he cried. The others had been worried – in all the time they'd met him, Roger had never been much a crier, but it was difficult for him to be so helpless, to need the assistance of others for the smallest things. He could hardly write anything with his other hand, he couldn't carry weight... But the other three helped, and when he drank Roger became super grateful and affectionate.

“You're the best friends in the world, even when with a useless cripple like me. I love you.”

And he started reminiscing.

“You know I made poor Deaky here listen to my sobbing for like, four hours? You're such a champ, Deaky. Thank youuuu.”

Then they fell into an easy routine. Every time there was food they cut it into little pieces for Roger. If they were looking at clothes, they immediately thoughts, would Roger's cast fit in there? Even when they were buying for themselves. Sometimes they wrote down ideas for songs Roger had, sometimes plain old grocery list or little reminders. Roger's bad arm became a part of their routine.

Six months later, after a concert, Roger and Deaky saw a familiar face on the crowd. It was the lady who had been at the hospital!

“I saw you boys in a poster and was curious to see what music you made. It was really good! And I am so happy to see you smile, son.”

Roger was grinning.

“With friends like this, who wouldn't smile?”

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is a claracivry whump collection without the classic drowning ep? Hope you like, pls do tell me if you enjoy!

They were messing around in the hotel, slightly intoxicated but thoroughly enjoying the day off they had after the concerts but before taking the plane back home. Just the four of them, the band, no dates or anyone else. They were having such a nice time... They tried the local cuisine, signed autographs (felt the love of locals in general), seen the sights and had some drinks.

The sun was setting down now, and they had the pool to themselves where they were enjoying some colourful cocktails in their swimsuit and occasionally jumping on the pool, while singing off key and making fun of each other while little jokes.

They didn't mind joking on each other, the stress, the tension and the pressure from the tour was over and they had some time off before going back home to any responsibilities that may be there. They were all in good moods, and it was great moments. They picked on Brian's super-long.when-wet hair, called him...

“What are those dogs with the long faces called? Afghan hounds? You're an Afghan hound, Bri!”

“Oh, shut up you golden retriever faced bastard!” Brian shot back at Roger, who just pouted.

“And what if I drown in this very pool, and the last thing you ever said to me was that I was a doge faced bastard? How would you feel, huh?”

It was just supposed to be a joke, something that you said to make others feel bad, but it came back to haunt them some hours later, when it was already dark. Hey, maybe if he hadn't said those words, Freddie wouldn't have noticed. But suddenly Roger was gone, and those came back to Freddie's head. _What if I drowned in this very pool...._

“Where's Roger? He was here a second ago. Didn't he... didn't he say he felt like swimming?”

But there was no blond head on the water. There was something ominous about that.

“Maybe he's in the toilet.” Deaky provided helpfully. The toilet was, sadly, absolutely empty.

“I could have sworn I heard him jumping.” Freddie said, getting a tad scared.

The truth was, everyone had been distracted. Deaky on the hotel getting drinks, Freddie singing a song he had just come up and Brian looking at night sky (you could see so much, the night was so clear). But they all felt like they'd heard Roger jumping in.

“I'm sure he just left, to get more cocktails or something.” Deaky added, trying to undo all of the sudden paranoia that was gripping them. “We just didn't notice.”

It sounded logical and very possible, hey they had been drinking and everything was kind of blurry, but still... All three of them were uneasy. Freddie kept checking the surface of the water in the darkness, John tried to think of other places where Roger may be.

Brian's mind simply short-circuited – now there was only one thought in a constant loop going through his head, all through his body. _He's drowning, he's drowning. He's at the bottom of pool, drowning._ So without thinking about it too much (or anything) he threw himself into the pool, trying to silence the dreadful thoughts screaming at him.

He was hoping not to find anyone or anything, just the confirmation that of cousres Roger was not drowning and not at the bottom of the pool. Wherever he was it was somewhere else, and they should be angry at him for not telling them where he went and putting that terrible idea in their heads. Yes, golden retriever Roger was going to get a big scolding for this. It wasn't fair, and it was terrible to play with their feelings like that. But unluckily for him, there he was, like some sort of underwater angel, blond hair floating, eyes closed.

Roger was at the bottom of the pool. He was drowning.

“Roger!” Brian tried to scream, but only bubbles came out.

Trying to be as fast and as gentle as possible, Brian took his friend from under the arms and swam back up to the surface as fast as he could, without thinking that he was still a bit drunk, without thinking about how heavy Roger was. Nothing truly matter except getting his friend out, backing into the living world. The only important thing in the world in that moment was getting Roger back in the surface.

When he did get back to the surface, apart from breathing the first thing was calling to the others to help him get Roger out and on the floor. Out of the water. Freddie and John complied, still a bit shaken, still believing that this had to be a nightmare, some sort of bad dream, a hallucination... But no... Roger was there wet, terribly unconscious, unmoving, limp and lifeless. Freddie froze for a moment, unable to think, unable to comprehend the situation. His dear Roger, with the soft smile and bluest eyes and the fire inside was drowned, all wet and lifeless.

“I'm calling for help” Deaky said, unable to look at Roger (so still, so quiet, god Roger was never quiet, this was so wrong) for even a second longer.

After getting out of the water the very much soaking wet Brian put his head on Roger's chest, dreading what he was no doubt going to realise in some short moments. Dammit.

“He's not breathing.” The words hurt in his mouth, more than anything else he had ever said.

He started CPR to the best of his memory, hoping it wouldn't be too late. Hoping his hands wouldn't shake too much, hoping it would be strong enough. It had to be, Roger's life was at stake here. One of his best and oldest friends, someone he fought with, someone he had shared everything with, someone who was very much an important part of his life. And now he was laying there, pale, still as death, still very wet, moving without meaning to as he received the compressions. This couldn't be.

Freddie watched the scene play out in horror. No. People DIED from drowning, people died and never came back and Roger couldn't be one of them. They needed Roger, all the entire world needed Roger's energy and raw beauty and excess. And he had a whole life, a whole million years ahead of him, he was way too full of life to go like this. Freddie's whole existence felt like it was coming undone around him, the thought of a life without Roger, the thought of mourning when they had been laughing only minutes before.... How could this be the end? How could Roger leave them like that?

“No, please.... Come on, darling... Wake up. You have to wake up.”

Brian compressed with more force now, hoping for a cough, a movement, any type of reaction. There were silent tears falling freely from his eyes now, mixing with the drops from the pool water. Nothing made sense. Why hadn't they seen something before? Why was Roger drowning, he knew how to swim? What on earth had happened? AND WHY THE HELL WASN'T ROGER WAKING UP!

More mouth to mouth. More compressions. One, two, three, one, two, three. _Don't think about what'll happen when you stop_. One, two, three. _Don't think about how he might be gone_. One, two, three.

And then... light.

A loud cough, some retched water, blue eyes full of pain and anguish opening suddenly. The coughs were many and dry and violent, but they were important, oh they were the greatest music to their ears. Roger hadn't drowned, Roger wasn't gone.

Freddie sank to his knees, tears of joy in his eyes.

Brian just looked at his friend in wonder, taking in his eyes, his face... He was alive.

“Roger”

They hardly heard the ambulance coming in – all they wanted to hear was their friend, breathing again. They hardly heard the doctors either, telling them in patchy English about hypoglycemic unawareness and how their friend had passed out while under water from low blood sugar, which he probably didn't know he had. All they wanted to do was see him again, awake, alive, more or less well. Out of the woods.

Roger was shaken up, badly, but grateful for the company.

“It was just a split second, I knew I was going to faint but I couldn't warn you guys, couldn't go up... I was certain I was done for.”

“Never when you're with us. We wouldn't be able to live with ourselves if something bad happened to you.”

“Thank you for fishing me out of the water.”

“Always.” Brian said, looking at Roger in the eye, serious.

“Yeah, dear, but don't pull stunts like this too often, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

There were some smiles, some more tears of joy. They were together again, they were whole.

… But they weren't going on another pool for some time.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by Katie. I felt bad for not including Deaky last time so here's Deaky and some fluff and angst. Hope you enjoy! Do tell me if you do!

Roger had a bad mood and it had changed from his usual bitchyness and anger to an odd state of resigned sadness. Hell, he hadn't even gone out for the last, what, five nights? That was a record for him.

Several things piled up together: he'd been dumped and screamed at by his latest lady love, who'd gone so far as to slap him. In front of people. And he had a big fight with Brian and they hadn't forgiven each other yet and it was clear that it was eating at Roger, a lot. You could see in the way he looked at the guitarist, guilty, sad, wrong. And his last song hadn't made the cut of the album. And Roger was bummed because all of those things combined meant he was alone and miserable.

So John decided to invite him over lunch. His wife was away, so Roger wouldn't feel like a third wheel – it was the ideal occasion. And Deaky felt that Roger could really use a nice home-cooked meal and a nice cup of tea, combined with someone not-so-dramatic to listen to his many dramas would do him a world of good.

He would listen to him, offer a non-judgmental ear, and with some luck, cheer him up a bit. Roger and him had very different personalities, but he was still someone John cared about a lot. He wanted the drummer to be okay, and while normally he didn't have much of a say in that, maybe today would be the exception.

Roger accepted after some convincing, and mostly accepted because he had no food in his place and didn't feel like cooking.

John's very many attempts at cheering Roger up were fairly fruitless. You couldn't talk to him about romantic/emotional life after his latest fiasco and their extremely different styles of approaching that. It was difficult to talk about songs too, because John's songs always made the cut, and then they would become singles and everyone would sing them back to them.... And mentions of the band and the others had to be handled with care too, because of his fight... It really was tough.

Things got a bit better after John promised to help smooth things over with Brian, make things a bit easier. Roger complimented the cake John made and even drank the tea even if he wasn't much of a tea person. He did seem to be a bit less sad, so Deaky felt satisfied. He worried about everyone, but especially about Roger and Freddie as they seemed to sometimes lose themselves in all of that partying.

But just as the evening seemed to get better it also started to get worse. Roger started coughing, suddenly, and his eyes got red – not terribly, but itchy and a bit swollen. Wrong. He also started feeling a crampy sharp pain in his stomach. Odd, but not noteworthy. Yeah, he wasn't feeling great but maybe he was inventing the whole thing. He'd been ok mere minutes ago, hadn't he? This was probably paranoia.

He also didn't want to mention anything after all the effort Deaky had clearly put on that meal, on that day. He'd invited him, cooked all those dishes... probably even cleaned up for his guest, he seemed like the kind of guy who would do that. What kind of ingratitude would it be complaining about his stomach so soon after eating? If the food had been wrong Deaky would also be feeling wrong, and it didn't seem to be any different from before. No, he would just endure it because it had been a good meal and a good gesture and just focus on whatever the bassist was saying.

Until he couldn't ignore it anymore – until it became urgent that he went to the bathroom.

Sadly, he was too late, and threw up in the hallway leading to the bathroom, in Deaky's nice colourful carpet. And that wasn't just it. Apart from staining his host's nice carpet the fact that he hadn't made it to the bathroom meant that his nice attentive friend had heard him retching, destroying any chance of him covering it up, cleaning it before anyone found out. Also, he felt like crap.

Deaky was behind him in seconds.

“Rog, what's wrong?” They were way past _are you okays_ by that point, it would seem.

“I'm so sorry. You listen to all my complaining and cook for me and the thanks you get is vomit in your carpet. I really am sorry.”

Deaky was worried about more important things than the carpet.

“You didn't look sick when you came.” He put a hand on his friend's forehead. “You're not feverish, but your eyes look wrong, your lips look swollen. Do you hurt anywhere else?”

“Throat. Getting... harder to breathe.”

“I'm calling my neighbour, she's just become a doctor, works in a hospital. Let me help you back to the couch.”

While they were waiting for the doctor, Roger only worse, making John wonder if he should be even calling an ambulance. It seemed rather alarmist considering Roger had been perfectly fine minutes ago, but....

Jessica arrived in no time (thank god she was home) and gave a quick diagnosis.

“Aaaah, it looks like anaphylactic shock.”

“What?” Deaky didn't know what that was, but it sounded bad.

“Very severe allergic reaction. Uhhh, honey... what's his name?”

“Roger.”

“Roger, can you breathe easily?”

“Not... very... not very... easy.” In fact, Roger was getting a bit light headed from lack of air. Where was all of this coming from?

“So it's affecting the airways. You don't have any epinephrine, do you?”

“I don't have what?” Deaky felt useless, helpless. His friend couldn't breathe and all he could say was what. 

“I'll call an ambulance, tell them to hurry the hell out. Call me back if it looks like he's stopped breathing.”

John was too shocked to even think. A few moments ago Roger had been perfectly fine and now he cold stop breathing and an ambulance had been called. Because he had an allergic reaction, an allergic reaction probably to something that was in the food he prepared... Shit. He had only been meaning to help, and now Roger could stop breathing because of his help. He should have asked if Roger had any allergies, but he figured if there was something that bad, the blond would have said something...

Truth was, Roger hadn't known, and hadn't ever had a reaction this bad. That was why he hadn't said anything, that was why he hadn't made a big deal of it. He was as surprised as Deaky when the doctor gave her diagnosis, and looked frightened at his friend with puffy red eyes. It was getting harder to breathe.

“What if he stops breathing?”

“I would have to perform an emergency tracheotomy.”

“What?”

“Open his throat with a scalpel. Let's hope it doesn't get to that.”

It didn't, thankfully bu they still took Roger to the hospital until the swelling was under control and to try and figure out what may have caused this. John called the others from reception, who came in no time, all very worried looking. It was good to see them, Deaky felt so bad but hadn't said anything not to burden the scared and also ill Roger with his guilt.

“I almost killed him!”

“None of that, darling. You couldn't have known this was going to happen if Roger himself didn't even know! You were just trying to help.” Freddie provided.

“And they still don't know what caused it?” Brian said, not liking this 

Deaky shook his head.

When they were let in, Roger looked much better. The swelling had gone down and he could breathe better, even if his eyes still looked a bit red and tired.

“Hey! If I knew you were all going to come I would have brushed my hair or something.” Roger said, tired. This whole experience had exhausted him.

“I'm so sorry I almost killed you.” Deaky said almost immediately. “I don't know how else to say it, I'm really really sorry.”

“There is nothing... to be sorry for. You didn't know. You... I'm glad you called me, got me out of my head. And I'm sorry about throwing up in your carpet.” Roger's ideas were clearer now that he'd almost stopped breathing from eating something he shouldn't have. It put things in perspective. “Bri, I....”

“Stop. It's okay, I accept your apology. If something irreversible had happened to you while we were not talking I wouldn't have been able to forgive myself. Let's just try and not hurt each other like this in the future, ok?”

“Oooh, so nice. Roger's not dead, there's been a reconciliation, this calls for a celebratory toast!” Freddie said. “Do you think we can get some champagne in the room?”

Roger smiled. Sometimes, these little silver linings were more important than all the dark clouds in the world.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by Elevozol and SmittyJaws

They hadn't been going all that fast, but it was too dark and the roads were slippery because of the ice. The curve had been too difficult too take, the wheels of the car too old. It wasn't anyone's fault, really, just some bad luck combined with bad weather. But that bad luck and that bad weather had the most awful consequences.

The thing was, the little car where the four of them were travelling back from that concert in the middle of nowhere had slipped on the icy roads and crashed into a tree. In the mountains, in a cold winter night. In a road that was practically deserted. It was less than ideal. The force of the crash knocked out the four men inside the car, near instantly. It was a violent, bad crash.

For a small while they remained unconscious, while the rain still fell on them. The two people in the front, Roger and Brian had been the ones who received the brunt of the crash, the ones that were worst off. John and Freddie felt the shock and blow and passed out too, but they were relatively unscathed. More whole.

When Freddie woke up after the crash it was cold and dark and it was eerily quiet. Freddie needed some seconds to adjust, to remeber what had happened, to understand. They were in the car but they weren't driving anymore. Why weren't they driving anymore? Oh, 'cos they had crashed into a big old tree. Oh my god, they had crashed! He seemed to be ok, more or less, (no holes, no bones sticking out) but what about the others? The others! What had happened to them?

He looked over at Deaky next to him, he had a nice gash on the forehead from where his head had hit the window that would probably brise quite colourfully, but he seemed intact otherwise. Nothing out of its place, no open wounds that may cause him to bleed out. Freddie shook him lightly.

“Deaky? Darling, can you hear me?”

After some shaking Deaky opened his eyes and frowned in pain.

“What... where?”

“The car crashed.”

“Owww....” John said, rubbing his forehead, finding it bloody.

“You have a nice bump in the head but I think you're whole otherwise. Does anything hurt?”

“Just my head...I... ugh...”

“I'm going to check on the others, ok?”

“Yeah, go...”

The others didn't look good and had taken the brunt of the impact so their state was quite concerning. They heard a single sound coming from them which was quite bad. Roger was generally a noisy guy, much more if he was hurt.

When Freddie went ahead and checked on the front the sight that greeted him one of the scariest things he had seen thing in his life. There was so much blood, so much wreckage, both of his friends so terribly unconscious... And that wasn't the worst. The worst was a fucking tree branch that had broken the glass and effectively impaled Roger on his seat. His friend, one of his best friends in the world, looking already half dead.

He breathed deeply, trying not to lose himself in the fear fro his friends and trying first of all to help them. There would be time for freaking out when he'd done all that he could for them. Now he had to be time useful, proactive, now he had to minimise the world. He decided to start trying to wake Brian: keeping people awake was supposed to be important, and Brian looked well enough that he could last awake for some time.

Brian's shirt was broken in places and he was going to have a big bruise where the safety belt had been, but he was probably going to live. Couple of broken ribs, maybe some bruising. Maybe his neck was a bit hurt too, that looked like a wrong position to land in....

“Brian, Brian?”

Blue tired eyes opened slowly and painfully and found a friendly face in fron of them. Freddie. They were in the car, but something was wrong. Something like the fact that there was a tree where the engine of the car should be. And they were all broken up, him the first. His chest felt all stomach hurt and broken inside, his neck hurt too much, but at least all of his limbs seemed to be responding.

“How are you feeling, darling?”

“Hurt. I... hurt. What...?”

“The car crashed, darling. Deaky, Brian's awake!”

“Oh, thank god.” Said a whispered voice behind them. Well, it could have been worse. At least Freddie and Deaky seemed to be more or less okay and he would be okay once he got some nice medical attention, he was sure, and... Roger! What had happened to Roger? He tried to move his neck as much as he could, to look at the figure on the seat next to him, but couldn't get a good look, only blond hair and blood.

“Fred, I can't see him... I can't... How is he?”

He wasn't good, not at all. Roger had been the one driving and he was the worst off out of all of them. His face was buried on the steering wheel, his arms lifeless on the sides, blood dripping from them. In fact, there was way too much blood all around him. And he was so motionless.... so pale...

Freddie checked first for a pulse and thankfully found one fairly quick. It was slow and erratic, but it was there. Then he moved his face from the steering wheel, and found it all red and bloody, the insignia of the car carved in his forehead. Blood was also coming from the corner of Roger's mouth, falling slowly but steadily.

“Oh, god.” Freddie let out, something between a sob and a surprised gasp.

The face wasn't even the worst part. A branch had broken through the glass and ran Roger through, just under the left shoulder blade, effectively impaling him on the seat. Freddie didn't know if he was supposed to do something, what if trying to take it out he worsened the blood loss? There were arteries there, and he didn't want the hole to be bigger, Roger looked too pale as it was...

“How bad is it? Is he.. is he...” Brian couldn't even say it.

“He's not dead.” Yet, his mind completed.

How long could he last without help? That branch may have nicked an artery or something, his chest looked like some internal damage was happening and his breathing was way too slow and shallow.

“Roger, Roger, wake up.” Freddie didn't have a lot of hope, but still tried.

“Freddie... is he.... is he dying?” Brian asked, with a small voice, dreading the answer.

Freddie didn't want to answer because in that moment he couldn't think of a single positive, uplifting thing to say. He didn't want to straight up lie to Brian, who also injured and in pain too, probably really scared, but maybe lies would be kinder.... No.

“It doesn't look good. There's...he's lost a lot of blood. But I'm sure the doctors will be able to fix him. And how are you, darling?”

Roger looked so.... dead already, but Freddie didn't want to cry, because then Brian would assume the worst and cry too and they needed to be strong, to endure as much as possible, as best as possible until help came.

Brian's breathing was laboured and painful sounding and Freddie was worried that a broken rib may have gone into a lung or something. Where was the help? It was so cold and so dark and Freddie needed to know something... Even one minute more lying there in wait, with the worried and injured Brian and the slowly bleeding out prone figure of Roger was too much. He wanted to collapse, he wanted to scream, he wanted to hug somebody....

After some very agonic minutes there were finally lights, red and yellow lights greeting them, and Freddie nearly wept.

“What's happening?” Brian asked, hating not being able to move.

“Help is coming, they're almost here. Do you hear, Rog? They'll fix you.”

The ambulance was there, they took Brian no problem and soon a neck brace thing to hold him, but Roger... he was more difficult to get, because of the branch and the tricky place it had punctured. They had some o negative in the ambulance bu they feared it wouldn't be enough... and the whole taking out the branch operation was delicate too, because they couldn't afford for Roger too lose even a drop more than necessary... So they just cut the branch and started transporting him with it, so that surgeons could take care of it.

It it wasn't too late...

 

**

Freddie and Deaky were in the hospital waiting room. They bandaged Deaky's head wound, checked them both and gave them an all clear. Now they were just waiting for news on the other too.

“He looked so dead, so dead already. Roger should never look like that. He's the one who has the most life out of all of us, he's... the sunshine, I....I should have done something more, shouldn't I? He was bleeding out, Deaky, bleeding out....”

“Hush.” Deaky said, in that nice quiet voice of his. “We got him help. He will be fine.”

They heard from Brian first. He had to wear a neck brace for a couple of weeks and be very careful as his whole midsection was bandaged and healing, but there hadn't any tears or anything. The broken ribs hadn't broken anything else, and they gave him some pain medication, so he was fairly... whole, for what it could have been.

They didn't hear from Roger until the next day, and even then he was still unconscious. Bandaged everywhere, Ivs and tubes sticking out, still laying pale as death, as some sort of sleeping beauty who had been waiting for the prince's kiss for too long. The internal damage had been extensive, but after the first two nights the doctors were hopeful Roger was really a fighter.

He woke up the next week, scared out of his mind that he'd killed his friends, he had been driving and he had lost control of the car, there was a tree and....

The faces of his friend's were ll around the bed, allowing him to breathe. Deaky had a nasty bruise on the forehead and Bri one of those neck things...But he hadn't killed him.

“I'm so sorry...”

The others frowned, not getting it. Deaky remembered: Roger had been driving. Oh.

“It was just an accident. You have nothing to be sorry for. And besides...” there was a smile. “We made it.”

Yeah, they made it. No matter how the recovery now would be, regardless of the lost car, of the pain and fear of that night... they had made it.

In that white hospital room, those four boys weren't just rockstars anymore.

They were survivors.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by Scorpius_cinnamon_roll and Katie. Warning for fluff!

_Brian_

Since Roger had got sick, he'd been impossible. He would lash out at everyone (“I'm sick, I'm not an idiot!), he had thrown several dishes of soup and oatmeal at the walls of his room and screamed to be left alone. When he first got sick, more than anything else he was just angry. He would fight against the covers and look furiously at the rest of them, resenting how good their skin looked and how little they seemed to itch.

But now his fever had gone up and he'd calmed down somewhat, too tired and devoid of energy for his usual antics. When Brian came into his room, he just looked at him sadly, and said with a small voice:

“It's ok. You don't have to come and keep me company, I can look after myself. You can go back to your guitar and your thinking and your important stuff.”

Nobody knew exactly how it had happened but Roger had contracted chicken pox. Apparently he hadn't passed it as a child and now his whole body was covered in red angry dots. But itchy everywhere but not being able to scratch (it could leave scars!) was making him really cranky, angry, sad, frustrated. The others were taking turns staying with him, or as they'd taken to calling it “Roger-duty”. Roger understood he wasn't the best company in that moment.

“Don't be so dramatic, Rog. You know I enjoy spending time with you.”

Roger looked at the taller man with red rimmed blue eyes full of gratitude. The last couple of days had been a nightmare. The headache, the pain, waking up itching all over but not being able to scratch for fear of ending up completely marked everywhere (he wore gloves all the time, just in case.) Everything hurt and it was difficult to distract himself from the itching. Thank god his friends still tolerated him.

“What if I stay like this forever? A monster full of zits that nobody wants to touch. What if I am not pretty anymore?”

Brian instructed Roger to put his blond tired head on his shoulder. A bit of human warmth would probably do him a world of good. Roger complied, it was nice to be touched even in those gross terrible moments.

“If you remained a red spotted monster we would still love you, and still need you and use you on the drums. But this will pass, you will go back to your usual flawless self in no time.”

Roger liked hearing that, but it wasn't enough.

“I don't like not being pretty. I've always been pretty.”

“You're still pretty, Rog, You're just sick.”

It was so unsettling, looking at his reflection and seeing that horror... he'd always taken good care of himself, looked after his hair, his body. He liked showing off how good looking he was, and he often did wearing those open shirts, and the necklaces... Now he was a total mess, all red and swollen and sweaty and it was depressing him terribly.

“Say it again, Bri.”

“You're still pretty. We still love you.”

*

_Freddie_

It was...disquieting. Roger was one of those guys that never stopped moving, speaking, just doing things. A never ending tornado of a person. And now... After the whirlwind of the first days, with Roger calling them all sorts of mean names and even throwing Freddie a bowl of hot soup to his face (“it tastes like feet”), now he was... subdued. Roger had gotten sicker and sicker until he'd become this shadow of himself, so still, tired looking, quiet.

The virus seemed to be hitting him hard, harder than any child they knew that had passed through this. His whole body itched and ached, not just because of the blisters, but everywhere else too, also his joints ached as if he were an old man, and he had an awful headache. His appetite had deserted him and he hadn't wanted to eat anything in the last three days, he would only eat when the others forced him to, and little else apart from tea and some soup. Eating made him nauseous and uneasy. His eyes drooped closed more often than not during the day, but his sleep was restless and uncomfortable.

He just felt so bad, so tired, so itchy and uncomfortable on his own skin... His face was flushed with fever and all of his head felt wrong, as if it was put in a bottle with a little flame underneath. He just wanted to curl up in bed and let the days pass without him having to even exist.

But the doctor had given him some lotion and now Freddie had to put it on, to calm the itch somewhat.

“Would you like me to sing something for you?” Freddie said, trying to find something, anything to cheer his sick friend up.

“No, headache.” Roger's little voice said.

“All right.”

So Freddie kept applying the lotion in those reddened skinny arms, slightly distraught. This wasn't like Roger, it wasn't like him at all. He could hear the blonde's laboured breathing, and he seemed to be two steps from crying the whole time. It wasn't right. Freddie really wanted to do something for Roger, but didn't know what.

“You want to watch the telly when we finish with this? I'll let you choose.”

Roger just shook his head, sad, looking like he had nothing to live for. Ugh.

“I know! I'll bring one of the magazines and read some of the articles to you. Don't worry, I'll use my gentlest voice.”

And so when he finished with the lotion he brought one of those magazine's to Roger's room and explained in detail and reading very dramatically all that had happened in the lives of the celebrities and royalty those last few weeks. And Roger smiled, for the first time in days, and Freddie felt like actual real royalty.

*

_Deaky_

It was 3 am and John was looking at Roger with dread.

Roger was burning up so very badly and Deaky was getting very worried. He'd just applied a cold towel to the too-hot forehead of his fried, but it didn't seem to be helping much. Roger was tossing and turning, breathing loudly and with difficulty. He looked like he was suffering a lot, eyes clenched shut, moans escaping every now and then. It was painful to watch.

Deaky didn't know what to do, Roger's fever was too high for his area of expertise, his skin almost burned to the touch and it was only getting higher... He'd given him all the medication that Roger had been prescribed but it hadn't helped much, and Deaky was worried that something might be seriously wrong. He had looked up the difference of chicken pox in children and adults and knew there could be some serious consequences.

The complications could be many and quite severe: from pneumonia to something terrible called toxic shock syndrome. Roger could develop one of those things, their Roger, while they were supposed to be looking after him. How would they know if the fever was caused by or hiding more severe? How could they tell if these were the first stages of a toxic shock syndrome? Yeah, the doctor that had seen Roger had warned them that the fever could be quite high, specially at night, but... He wanted to talk to somebody else, but had no reason to wake anyone at that hour. He was just scared.

And suddenly the door opened and Deaky nearly jumped. It was just Freddie.

“Weren't you supposed to be sleeping at your parents' tonight?”

“I was there, but I couldn't sleep. And apparently neither can you. How's our spotty angel doing?”

“It's bad, Freddie, he's very ill. He's burning up real bad and a couple of hours ago he thought I was his mum.”

Deaky probably won't forget those unfocused blue eyes, looking at him with despair and “it hurts, mummy. It hurts so much.”. The two bandmates went into Roger's room and Freddie understood why the bassist was so worried. Roger looked awful, pale and sweaty and too thin, but most of all he seemed to be hurting a lot.

“Aww, poor darling. It breaks my heart to see him like this.”

“Should we do something?” Deaky asked, needing some guidance. He knew they should probably let the fever run its course, but leaving there Roger to suffer seemed almost cruel.

“If tomorrow morning his fever is still this bad we get the doctor again.”

“Ok, ok, good.” That would soothed John's conscience. For now.

“You want me to take over?” Freddie asked, but Deaky shook his head.

“I wouldn't be able to sleep anyways. Not until I know he's better.”

John never went to sleep until Roger's fever had faded to mild. He had priorities.

*

It was only the next week that Roger's blisters started to heal, that he begun to feel a bit better. By that time all four of them looked terrible: Roger and his red dots everywhere, Freddie looked like he hadn't slept in months, Deaky's hair was sticking out every which way and Brian had the worst case of raccoon eyes in all of England.

Roger was very touched.

“You guys unprettied yourselves to match me!”

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! For those who don't follow me on tumblr: I broke my arm on Friday, so the second half of this is typed with one arm. Expect typos sorry. Hope you like anyways! Do tell me if you enjoy!   
> This was requested by Belsy and Renegade hero

He was going out of a pub, it must have been about 3 am, when somebody, several somebodies, in fact, grabbed him and put a wet rag on his mouth. Roger fought them off, a tiny part of his brain knowing that this was very bad, but couldn't do much else. Little by little the power of the wet rag increased on him, and in less than a minute he was collapsing boneless in the arms of his captors.

The next time he woke up, he could only see black, his legs to a chair with rope and chains, his hands cuffed behind his back, a blindfold on his eyes. He didn't, couldn't know here was, he didn't understand what happened but his head hurt terribly.

"Hello? Anyone there? Is this is a joke it's not funny!"

But Roger was really, really hoping it was indeed some terrible prank, because the alternative was very much worse. The alternative was that some criminal had taken him and meant to ransom his loved ones, or kill him if they didn't give him the money. He had seen the films, the fingers in the mail, the whole she-bang. Being kidnapped was a terrible experience, and unlike in the movies, so always very often wit the tendency to happy ending, kidnappings often finished tragically for the taken person.

"Hello?"

This seemed less and less like a joke every second that passed. It wasn't even funny. After a while in which nobody answered, which made Roger think that maybe his kidnapper wasn't home.

"Please, somebody! Help! Help me! I've been kidnapped!" He screamed as loud as he could, hoping that maybe they were in apartment and a neighbour heard him. He tried to undo his bindings, fought against the ties and the cuffs, but didn't manage anything. He couldn't move, he couldn't warn anyone else. That would have been too lucky, wouldn't it? And luck wasn't with him lately.

Old, cold hands touched his neck. A shiver coursed through Roger, who tried to move, desperately away from that unknown touch, but couldn't.

"Hush, my golden angel. Nobody can hear you but me." A rough voice said on his ear. "You're mine now. And you're going to get me the life I always wanted."

**

"Where is he? He shouldn't have been here hours ago."

Freddie, John and Brian were in the studio, but Roger was missing.

"I'm going to call the hotel." Brian said, tired of sitting on his ass waiting.

Freddie and John just figured that Roger had a late night and was still sleeping. It was something normal, but not pleasant. Brian seemed worried.

"The hotel says he never came last night. And I called Bob after, he told me that Roger didn't leave with any woman - he left alone, at about 3 am, and he said he was going to the hotel. I don't like this."

"I'm sure he just picked somebody up on the way from the hotel and is now sleeping with some lady. And being an idiot making us worry." Freddie said, although he had a bad feeling too. He had a terrible nightmare that he was in the funeral of one of the guys, and it had been so vivid. He'd felt his own sadness, he known why he was so sad. He'd mourned in his dream... and now Roger was missing.

Just as they were looking at each other trying not to freak out, the telephone rang. Freddie picked it up, hoping it to be a producer or someone like that.

"Hello?"

"Just the man I wanted to talk to. Have you misplaced someone?" An odd old voice said.

"No....."

"Do say hello, my golden angel." And then the telephone moves and there was somebody they knew. Roger.

"Don't give him any money! He'll kill me the moment he gets it! Hes waiting for the moment, he means to sacrifice..." And then there was the sound of him being gagged.

Shit. That was indeed Roger's voice and he sounded awful, hoarse, broken. What had they done to him?

"I've been having my fun with him, haven't I? I do like to enjoy toying with my things before I can watch their necks become red fountains, don't I? I just love seeing the blood so much, I like making people bleed, and offering their blood to higher powers. And this golden angel bleeds so beautifully... But there are more important things than that right now, aren't there?"

"LET HIM GO!" Freddie said, not able to hold himself back. Deaky's eyes were bright. This felt like a nightmare.

"What do you want in exchange for him?" Brian asked, trying to maintain the calm.

"All I ask for the safe return of dear Mister Taylor is two million pounds in small bills."

"Two million?"

"I am sure you will be able to get it together... you're Queen, aren't you? If you need a motivation, think that I will be having my fun with him while you gather the money, and if you don' find it... Well, red fountain. Perhaps then I'll hang his body outside, turn him into a real golden angel by burning some wax wings to his back. I will call tomorrow at this hour with more instructions. If you get the police involved I will him and put his bled out body somewhere public, making sure that everyone knows you let him die."

And then the man hung up, and the three remaining members of the band felt like they were dying. This was so bad... Normally they would have called the police anyways, but when Roger himself warned them that the man going to kill him at any excuse....

“What can we do??” Deaky asked, his hands nearly shaking. “Calling the police sounds too dangerous, but if we get the money it could still end in tragedy....”

“We need to find out who it is ourselves” Brian said, serious. “And find a way to distract whoever that guy is, and get Roger out. Safely.”

It sounded like too big a task for just the three of them, but it was nearly the only scenario in which Roger made it out alive. The thought of their joyful, beloved drummer, on the hands of some maniac who liked to make people bleed.... No. It was too painful, too horrible a thought to even contemplate. They would have to concentrate on who this guy was, and where he could have Roger. How to rescue their friend. How to get him out of that cell.

“I think it's somebody we know.” John said, trying to order his thoughts. “The voice sounded disguised, but familiar. And he had to know where he was to abduct Roger, right?”

“And there's a religious theme going on... Angels, sacrifice.... There's a lot of wax in churches, maybe that's where he's at...A church is a great place to hide, lots of empty basements and rooms like that. Also the last place where you would expect to find a kidnapper...”

The investigation was difficult, but doable. They had all read a lot of Agatha Christie and had some ideas as to how to find the culprit and who it could be. They were intelligent, they were very awake and even more motivated. They continued with this process until they had only three suspects and enlisted the help of some security people they trusted, as backup and to have somebody who knew their way around a weapon. They started to raid the churches without much of a plan. Time was of the essence here, and it was important that they got to the man unexpectedly, so he wouldn't have the occasion to put a knife to Roger's throat.

But every second was hell. Every moment was a moment in which this psycho could be doing unspeakable things to their friend, hurting him, cutting him, touching him while he was bound and gagged....And what if he went too far? Roger looked so... delicate, small. 

Fortunately, the security guys were able to secure the madman in the last church they visited.

“How....”

“It was your obsession with Angel things that gave us the clue... I remembered your insistence about adding you sacrificial angel song to our set, and how you told us that you could make almost any voice as background... Did you wanted us to catch you? Because giving us so many clues...”

While Freddie and the security guys distracted the man and called for backup, Brian and John looked for their friend. It wasn't all that difficult because there was a trail of blood showing them any place where Roger had been... Good for finding him, but bad for their friend. This was so much blood... The thought of being there, alone in that cold abandoned chapel, alone with a madman... Roger really must have been having the worst time.

“Rog? Are you there? It's us, we've come for you.”

The sight that greeted them would fuel their nightmares for many years to come.

Roger was unconscious, tied and chained to a chair and covered in bleeding wounds: in his arms, in his legs, in his exposed chest and stomach, all criss-crossed by angry red lines, some of which were still bleeding. Deaky gasped, put his hands on his mouth and Brian too had trouble keeping his eyes on that awful scene. This was one of his best and oldest friends, he'd been partying and drinking with him just hours ago, and now....

“John, find a phone, get an ambulance.”

The younger man ran away and Brian knelt next to his injured friend, trying to assess the situation. Roger reacted to the soft, warm touch that felt so unfamiliar after the horror of his captor. Brian felt like crying when he saw those blue eyes open, once again, and shine with recognition.

“Rog, it's me. You're safe now, we found you.”

“Brian?”

“Yes! Yes, it's me! And the others are here too, and we're not going to let that man hurt you anymore.”

“You won't... won't let him kill me. I knew you wouldn't.”

After that, the man responsible was found guilty of aggravated assault, abduction and kidnapping. He would probably spend the remainder of his life behind bars, serving as a nice example of what could happen to you if you tried to mess with anyone in Queen.

Roger began having very vivid nightmares and sometimes night terrors in his sleep, screaming, waking up terribly afraid, afraid to be bound and cut again, afraid to be in the hands of someone who meant to kill him and parading his body. It was a difficult experience to recover from. So the others decided that the best way so that none of them would have bad dreams....

Exactly. Huge ass bed, with capacity for four young musicians, who needed each other's touch to feel safe, to sleep properly. That way, too, if someone wanted to take one of them, they would have to go through the others. Roger and his myriad bandages and band-aids was in the middle of the Queen sandwich. Warm, calm, protected. Cocooned between his friends, so that no maniacs and no bad dreams could get to him.

Not if they could help it.

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by star2dust and an anon on my tumblr. Done mainly with a speech to text app, so sorry for typos. Hope you enjoy! Pls tell me if you do!

“Roger! Enough!”

Freddie's shout was heard across half of the pub where he was partying with the rest of the band.

That blonde boy really got on his nerves sometimes. Too many times lately. Roger could be the most irritating person in the world, and he put everybody on edge with his cockiness, his need for attention and how loud he always was. And he didn't care about annoying other people, many times he seemed to enjoy it. Annoying, loud, obnoxious Roger.

This time, for example, despite how furious he'd made Freddie, there was a shit eating grin on his pretty face. Didn't he even care?

“What are you going to do, punch me?” The drummer said on a mocking tone, not caring about how much angrier that was going to make his friend. Not realising the consequences.

Without thinking it Freddie did it. He punched Roger in the face, straight in the middle of that surprised face. And unable to move away in time, the blonde head hit the stone wall behind him, hard.

Time completely stopped.

“Roger...? ”

Roger fell on the floor, lifeless, and there was blood where his head had hit the wall. Oh no.

Freddie watched, frozen in time as he saw Roger's body dead looking on the floor, made a crumple. His eyes were closed and he had fallen in too a strange a way to be faking it. Still, Freddie hoped that was the case, because if Roger wasn't joking around it would mean that he has knocked his friend unconscious. It felt too horrible to be true.

“It's not funny. Come on get up you've made your point.” Fredddie's voice was shaking.

As he was trying to get to grips what he has done, Brian appeared out of nowhere with Deaky in tow.

“God, what happened?” John asked Freddie, while Brian knelt next to their unconscious bandmate.

He tried to wake the other boy up, slapped his face, called his name, but the drummer was as limp as a rag doll in his arms. There was a red blow on his left eye and a bleeding gash on the right side of his forehead. The gash wasn't too bad, but fact that he wasn't answering to the movement, the sound and Brian's soft voice was quite concerning.

“Did you see who did this?” Brian asked, distress clear on his face. 

“I... I did this” Freddie said with the smallest voice they ever heard him use, still having trouble to believe he'd done that. “I didn't mean to hurt him.”

He really hadn't. God, just they idea of Roger being badly hurt felt too awful to even consider. Freddie had often asked him to be careful when he got a new car, worried about him speeding and killing himself... He also worried about him when he drank too much. Roger was always putting himself in danger, in the line of fire, and Freddie had worried about him getting seriously hurt one day. He never imagined he could be the one hurting him.

The fact that he was the one that had caused his friend to be lying boneless with his face red and bloody... Sure, he hadn't been thinking, but he made Roger bleed. He hurt his head, he'd put all his strength in that blow. There was an air of betrayal in Brian's eyes. How could he have done something like that?

“Oh gosh. Oh God oh God oh God. I just didn't think.... I didn't realize how strong I could be... Oh God Roger wake up, wake up, wake up! ”

John's eyes were as wide as saucers. He knew that the Roger and Freddie often clashed, but to see one of them actually hurting the other.... It wasn't something he'd ever thought he'd see, and wasn't something Freddie had expected, either. The singer seemed genuinely horrified by what he had done, so the bassist tried to offer him some support.

“I'm sure he'll be fine.” But Roger didn't look fine on the floor.

His blue eyes opened soon after, but something was wrong, the eyes weren't focused, they were too bright. Roger had a lot of trouble to recognize Brian, and everything seemed to be spinning around him. When Brian tried to help him up he nearly fell again, and he had to hold on to the taller man to avoid falling. Even with Brian's support, it was hard to stay upright.

“what... Why?... ”

“Rog, do you know where you are?”

“Bri? My head hurts.”

When they tried to move Roger he became overcome my nausea, and he threw up just outside the door of the pub.

“I think we should take him to the doctor” John said, concerned. “He may have a head injury.”

Freddie wanted to kick himself, punch himself, scream at the world that he really hated himself in that moment. He didn't even remember why he had been so angry in the first place, he could only see he's friend's out of focus eyes looking nowhere, his pale face crossed by that angry gash and that eye that was going to bruise, badly. He had broken him. He'd been angry and broken his friend.

“I'm sorry I'm so sorry I really really am sorry.” Freddie kept repeating as they drove in a taxi to an all-night clinic. Roger didn't hear him, as seemed completely out of it, only making Freddie feel worse. When they got out of the taxi, Roger was sick again. Twice. Violently. Fortunately, the doctors saw Roger quite quickly an gave them a diagnosis.

Apparently, Roger had a mild concussion which was why he couldn't stop vomiting and was so disoriented. They would have to keep an eye on him to make sure that didn't get to any worse but there wasn't much else that they could do, apart from giving him medication for the pain and making sure he reposed.

A concussion. Freddie had caused his friend serious head injury. Just because he hadn't been thinking. Roger could be annoying and sometimes he went out of his way to make other people angry, but this was too much. It was going too far. Deaky kept trying to make things better and cheer Freddie up, but there was a terrible distance in Brian's eyes.

“I know you didn't mean to, and I'll find a way to make peace with it, but... You could have broken his skull, Fred.”

Brian was right, of course. There would be forgiveness, but they couldn't and shouldn't forget. When they let Freddie in Roger's clinic room, he had ready to apologize one million times. He'd been worried that Roger wouldn't want to see him, that he would be angry at him, maybe even scared. It's not everyday that you get punched unconscious by someone you trusted.

“Hey, how are you feeling? How's your head?”

”Better, thanks.” He sounded off, not too scared maybe, but different, more subdued. Something had changed. At that terrible sight, words came out of Freddy's mouth like a flood, like a storm, without stopping, quick, one after the other. He needed to get it out. Guilt was eating him.

“I can't even begin to tell you how sorry I am, I just want to know that I didn't mean to hurt you - I never did, it was just something that I did without thinking, and I regretted it the moment I did it. I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, I hurt you, I gave you an important head injury, but I want you to know did I didn't do it on purpose, I would never hurt you on purpose you have to believe me, please...”

The blond man stopped him.

“It was my fault, Freddie. I'm always getting on your nerves I'm always getting on everyone's nerves, I... I should care more about you guys, about being kinder and better to you. And I'll make an effort...”

“Roger, no...It's me who did something wrong, on purpose or not... It was assault. I could have left you with sequels, I.... I know I don't deserve your forgiveness...”

"You're forgiven. Don't eat yourself up, Fred. I'll be fine" Roger tried to smile, but the smile came out wrong.

This whole situation felt wrong, a mistake. Roger's face, arguably one of the most beautiful faces in England looked terrible, and it was his fault.

Freddie did the only thing he could think of, and gently kissed Roger's injuries.

“Brian will be staying with you the next couple of days, but if you need anything...”

Freddie looked at his reddened hand and cursed it. He cursed every boxing lesson, he cursed his temper, he cursed the drinks he had. There was no turning back now, no denying it. He had hurt his friend, on purpose or not, he'd hurt him.

“I'll find a way to fix this.” Freddie promised, looking at his friend's injured face.

He would find a way to make it up to Roger, to his face, to this night, he would make everything all right...

But how?

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by the lovely Justpoisonous in tumblr. Prompts are closed for now, so kindly stop requesting stuff. There may be typos, sorry! Hope you guys like! Please leave a comment if you do!

They were having drinks at a bar, just the four of, classical night out with friends in plain old London. The members of Queen were beginning to get well known, which came with lots of advantages, such as getting a lot of free drinks. The weather was warm, they were young popular and handsome and the general Londoners loved them. But there was something different about that night, something that Deaky couldn't quite put his finger on, but that was making them feel...odd.

Freddie was chatting up everyone in the bar, which was nothing unusual. That man could make friends with the stones if you let him, he was extroverted, so talkative. He always had something to say, an anecdote, a joke and most of the time he was very witty. Sometimes Deaky wished to be more like that, chatty, outgoing, friends with everyone (but most of the time he was perfectly content with his personality - he reserved himself and his witty remarks ford only the truly worthy). No, whatever was different that night it wasn't Freddie.

Brian seemed to be lost on a world of his own, but that was no novelty either. Brian always seemed to be thinking, deep complicated thoughts that often troubled him. Sometimes Deaky read Brian's songs, or his ideas for them and din't understand anything. There was beauty and depth in them, but damn could he be convoluted sometimes. No, again, Brian being lost in his own mind space wasn't it either. There was something else.

Who was missing? Oh yes, a loud and lively presence of the blond variety. Where was Roger? Usually he was the soul and heart of the party, inviting to drinks, flirting with several people at the same time... But today he was quiet, which was very unlike him. Normally he couldn't ever stop speaking, especially when he was drunk. He will talk about how awesome he's new song was, how great the night was, how beautiful everyone looked. Anything and everything. Roger was always talking, always loud, much more if he was intoxicated, but tonight he was quiet.

Roger. Quiet. These words were exactly what was wrong with the whole picture of that otherwise beautiful night. There was something wrong him, with how wobbly his legs were, with how pale he was. Something was wrong with Roger, more than just him being quiet. Something serious.

An older man in a suit was talking to him and Deaky noticed with horror that the man was very obviously trying to get Roger away from the rest of them. And there was something... dirty, something very off putting about the way he was looking at Roger. And not just looking, this stranger was touching him and putting his eyes all over the drummer.

And in the meantime Roger looked...strange. His eyes says we're too bright, to unfocused. He kept looking at his hands and as much as he tried he couldn't recognize them as his own.

”My friends...” He said, hopeful. His friends would know what was happening, how to make sense of that whole night, of the whole situation. They would know why it was so cold, they would understand what was going on with his hands But the man was taking him away and Roger had no restraint and no willpower to say no to him.

“I will take you to them, just follow me...”

There was an odd creepy smile on the man's face, but Roger could not care, even if he wanted to, even if he tried. His synapses and all his logical decision taking centres had been bypassed, higher stronger powers were making him....complacent. Malleable. He just wanted to find his friends, and if this man could take him to them...

“Excuse me” a strong voice said. “Who are you and where exactly are you taking my friend?”

Deaky had realised what had happened: this man had offered Roger a drink that had something in it other than alcohol, something that would make the drummer unable to fight back if he wanted to... do something against his will. Roger had been drugged.

The man was fidgety, uncomfortable since the moment that John got closer. Looking at the exits, at how best to escape.

After some time of not understanding, Roger understood whose voice it was, who was that person. Finally, something good.

“Deaky, I don't feel well.”

The man run away, not wanting to get in more trouble, but Deaky remember his face perfectly and was going to give a very detailed description to the police, once Roger was sorted out. He didn't even want to think what that man meant to do with Roger while he was drugged like that. But right then his first priority was another man.

“I'm cold... Don't feel well”

Roger was slurring the words, and he had trouble to speak properly. What was happening He'd been perfectly fine a couple of hours before, and he wasn't _that_ drunk. But he had trouble not just to speak, but to think clearly. His head felt clouded... as if only half of the lights were on.

He also had trouble to keep upright, and looked around him not understanding what was happening. Where was he? What time it was? Why was it so cold? Why did his head feel so strange? Why couldn't he answer anything? He felt like throwing up and his head was spinning. He had never felt so light headed in his life.

“We are going to find Freddie and Brian and we are going to take you home.” Deaky said, his calm in the storm. Deaky was smart, he would know what to do. He would help him, of course he would.

But Deaky didn't really know. Should they take him to a hospital? They didn't know what drug they had used on Roger, but normally the only thing the doctor said what's to wait out the effects. They should probably have him tested, if only so that the police would have proof. 

“He was drugged” Deaky said bluntly to the other two when he found them. “We should take him somewhere where the can rest while the effects pass.”

Roger was shivering violently despite the heat of that place.

“I... don't... feel... well” It came out as more of a sob than anything else because Roger was confused and didn't know what, where he was. Something was fundamentally wrong.

Reality was wobbly, unreliable and ever changing. He couldn't understand it, he couldn't remember the others and he felt so so bad. He was cold and light-headed, and so terribly nauseous. He felt that if any given time he would jump out of his body, and then people would toy with it, while he could do nothing but watch.

He wanted to ask his friends for help, but it was very difficult to concentrate, to make the words necessary to ask for it, to explain himself, to look for comfort. He tried to express himself, but his body refused to let him. He could hardly speak, hardly stay upright. He looked at his savior with cloudy distressed eyes.

“We will fix you up. We would keep you safe, you don't have to worry about anything.”

Roger didn't have to worry, but the other three were like 90% worry by then. They were going to a hospital and the blonde looked so distraught, so anxious and broken....But that only meant that they had to be strong for him, they had to be his rock. Make sure he was comfortable, looked after, that he knew the whole time where he was and that they were there. 

Even in that cold non-personal hospital room they covered him in blankets, made him some nice herbal tea and sung him some of his favorite songs. Everything so that he would go back to feeling grounded, to feeling well. So that he could go back to feeling like himself. To being loud annoying presence he always had been. 

They had nearly lost him to some criminal, to a predator... When Deaky went to inform the police of what had happened he found out that the same man was wanted on the matter of three rapes and another two murders. Sometimes, the victims woke up too early, and saw his face after the effects of the drug had worn off... Then he killed them. A shiver coursed through Deaky, what if he hadn't noticed that Roger was too quiet? What if he had stayed at home?

When Roger woke up the next morning he had a terrible headache, the nausea was even worse, and he didn't remember anything about the previous night. It had been wiped out, which was quite scary, especially when it left him feeling so...unwell. But he wasn't alone: He had three people that were there making sure that he was safe, that he was whole and unhurt...

  
Making sure he was protected.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by IceFieldSlipper. Done mostly with the speech to text app, that cannot, for the life of it, understand the word Roger. I tried to clean it up, but it still may be messy :((. Prompts still closed, sorry. Please do comment if you like!

Roger was made a ball in his bed, curled up on himself. He was holding his stomach tightly, his eyes closed in pain, his breathing coming in short, painful wheezes. He got like this sometimes since he was a kid. He had lots of stomachaches, sometimes soft, sometimes crippling in their intensity. Nobody had been able to find out why did he get this pain, but it has plagued him on and off since he was a little child.

He had been tested, of course, he went to a lot of doctors and had many tests but nobody was able to find a cure for his pain. Music had been a distraction from it, a release, a way to forget. After some fruitless testing, one of the doctors simply decided that he was faking it to get some more attention, so people stopped worrying about it, stopped looking for reasons. It was just him trying to get more attention him, being the demanding child that he always was. They stopped believing he even hurt at all. Stopped believing him.

But he wasn't inventing it, and even when he got no attention, it still hurt. But no one believed him. Class mates, teachers, girlfriends. They all told him that if the doctors said there wasn't anything that could cause that pain, then there was no pain. He didn't know more than the whole medical profession, did he? It was all in his head, and he could stop the pain when he wanted. As if. Still, it never was too bad, he never had any sequels apart from the pain, so he learned to ignore it, or at least live with it.

Yeah, it hurt, but he used to that. Although sometimes pain was unbearable, some days the pain was so bad that he couldn't even think. It just started as a dull ache near his navel and then it grew stronger and became a pulsating pain that spread all through his midsection. Sometimes he got cramps too, sometimes there was sharp pain like needles crossing him...

But because there was no apparent reason for it nobody had a cure for it, nobody's knew what to do to fix it. _Just wait it out_ , people usually sad _you will feel better in no time_. Those were the nice ones. The not nice ones told him to suck it up and stop being such a drama queen. Because they thought that he was inventing it, they didn't think it was worth getting help, so Roger stopped telling people, and just suffered in silence alone. It was better than hearing he was faking while he was doubling over.

That day the pain was especially bad. It had kept him up most of the night and it had only got stronger as morning came. There were fresh tears in his blue eyes and he was clutching the bed sheets tightly with the hand that wasn't in his stomach. Why was this happening to him? Why couldn't he be at peace? He had hurt for so many years he was so, so tired. And sometimes the pain could last for whole days, never letting up. But that day he couldn't stay in bed all day.

They were going to appear on television and it was important that he was there too. The band was starting to get well-known, and television appearances were very important for the big public to get to know them. All of them, not just Freddie. And besides he wanted to be there he wanted to give his opinion he wanted to make his presence known.

Sometimes in concerts drummers were the most forgotten people, because they were in the back, behind the drum kit. But the press appearances gave him a chance to be front and center, and he used every occasion to talk with every personality. To make himself known. Roger knew he probably wouldn't be his usual charming and witty self with all this pain, but he had to try.

He got up, showered and tried to be functional again. Made himself look presentable, even more than that, made himself look sexy as hell. With his long blonde hair down, the open shirt and all those silver necklaces he looked great. It was just a pity that he wasn't feeling it. Roger wanted to enjoy the good things of being well-known, of being popular, like every other musician. He wanted to be able to be happy about the questions that they were asked, and not just to think oh God I hope they don't notice I am dying in pain.

It was difficult not to scream, not to double over., sometimes it was the only thing he wanted to do. Not to hold his stomach as he usually so the others wouldn't notice was especially hard. But apart from being a great drummer and singer, Roger also knew how to be a good actor. And after so many years of people not caring, it was just best to pretend that it didn't hurt, to pretend he was as strong, whole, invulnerable.

The ride to the TV station was hell. When they asked Roger why he wasn't speaking that much he just said that he was nervous. Nobody thought too much of it because the others were quite nervous themselves. They had to make a great impression, they had to be different and somehow be themselves in a way that would make everyone want to listen to the music. It was a challenge.

Still they managed to give a very nice interview. There was a lot of quotable moments, there were some laughs and some jokes, and a lot of time for the music. The people from the program were very happy with it, and told them that they would definitely call them to come again. Freddie was really excited, he felt very in his element in front of the camera as he was a natural-born showman. Even Deacy who was the most quiet, least outgoing person had given some very fun sharp answers.

After taping the show they were meant to go back to the recording studio, and there was a limo waiting for them provided by the TV channel. When Roger tried to get in, Paul told him that there was no place for him. Not wanting to fight or make a scene, mostly because he has no strength, Roger decided to just take a taxi. Slightly worried by his friend's underwhelming reaction to something so rude, Brian decided to go with him.

Roger deflated, he had been hoping for some alone time in which he didn't have to pretend that he was all right, but really had no reason to tell Brian to piss off. The the taxi ride was mostly silent which spooked Brian a bit. When they were on the telly Roger had seemed his usual self, outspoken, fun, full of life, but now... Was it his imagination or was he paler? How come was he so quiet? And wasn't that pain that he could see in his eyes?

“Are you all right?”

Roger let out a long-suffering sigh. It was so difficult to keep up appearances after so long hurting. He looked at Brian, hopeful. He wouldn't judge him, he never did. The two of them didn't always get on because they had very different personalities, but at the end of the day they were there for each other, trusted each other, they'd known each other for years. Maybe, maybe he could let his guard down with Brian.

“Just a bit of a stomachache, that's all ” he put his hands on his midsection as he usually did. It brought little comfort, but it was better than nothing, better than pretending everything was okay. Brian's gaze softened and he offered his shoulder for Roger to lean on. The blond put his head on that the inviting shoulder and let himself go for a bit.

“Does it hurt a lot?” Brian asked, his voice soothing.

“Yes, it does.” Roger admitted, happy to be free of the weight, of the secret. “It hurts a lot and I am very tired.”

“Do you know why? Did you eat something that was off?”

“It's not food poisoning I've had this pain since, I was little it comes and goes but nobody has ever found the reason for it. Chronic abdominal pain. The medical consensus is that I am inventing it for attention.”

Brian was horrified.

“And you never told me, you never told anyone... why not?”

“There was nothing you could do, it felt pointless to say, to burden you with something that has no solution. Besides, I didn't want to appear weak or make you think that I was making up a condition for attention... a lot of people did. I was tired of people not believing me.”

“What about the pain medication? Doesn't it help?”

“It used to, but not anymore. I think I have build up an immunity or something. And because doctors don't believe it's real they don't prescribe any thing.”

“So there's nothing I can do to help? That's not right, there must be some way, something.”

Roger closed his eyes as an especially painful cramp coursed through him. He too wished there were something that could be done to be free of this, but no one ever had been able to help.

“It's okay.... I'll be fine. No need to look so worried.”

“But I am worried!”

“It's not a life-threatening issue.”

“Your life doesn't need to be in danger for me to worry, Rog. You're hurting and you have been hurting for many years - that is a problem in and of itself, something that should be dealt with.”

Roger rubbed his stomach willing the pain to go away and smiled at his friend.

“Just sing me one of your songs.... one of those slower ones, that will help.”

He closed his eyes and let Brian's soft voice singing _Some day one day_ distract him from his own personal hell.

As Brian sang his song, he tried to figure out what may be wrong with Roger. He did look paler than usual, and his breathing was heavy, but there didn't seem to be any other symptoms. He was in pain though there were no other accompanying symptoms, which ruled out a big number of conditions. Brian wished he knew more about medicine more about help. Him knowing the composition of interplanetary matter did nothing to relieve his friend's pain.

He looked at the drummer, who, with his eyes closed, was rubbing his stomach tightly. He looked so young, so small, so sad.... So different from the Roger they were used to. And all of this time he had been going through this alone, for fear of appearing as less than them, for fear of not being believed.

“I believe you... and I will find a way to help you, somehow.”

Brian stayed with him that night. He called Roger's mother and sister to find out more and he even managed to track down one of the old doctors of Roger's. A jackass whose only theory was that Rog was inventing it. Well, Brian knew that he wasn't so there has to be another explanation.

The next day Roger looked even worse. He kept telling his friend that it was okay, that he always bounced back, but he hadn't eaten in days and was becoming dizzy and weak. Brian canceled his appointments for the next three days, and started researching. He called contacts from uni, he asked professors for favors, found out who were the highest authorities idiopathic stomach pain.

For the next two days Roger was in more tests then he'd ever been before. Which were a lot. There was an scale of pain test thing and Brian was horrified to find out that Roger spent most of his life in pain. And a lot of it. People actually seemed to believe Roger which was a nice novelty. Brian was by his side the whole time offering his shoulder making sure he got the best care of the nation. (Roger asked not to tell the others...not yet)

For Roger, it was enough that people believed him. That he was allowed to hurt. The new doctor didn't find anything, just like the old ones. There was no reason, or at least no physical reason for his pain. They said that they only treatment was to reduce stress and anxiety. It was... some diagnosis, but Brian wasn't happy with it. There may be a lot of people who had pain from emotional factors, but he was totally sure his friend was not one of them. They simply weren't looking hard enough.

The next week Roger was better, and told Brian to stop worrying, that he was okay. The doctors, the best doctors told them that there was no reason be concerned, that he simply had to go back to his daily life as he had done. Brian tried not to worry, try to heed the advice of the doctors and his friend, but he couldn't stop thinking about it. There were something else there, and if they didn't do something soon it could get worse too late to fix.

Some months later it got so much worse. Roger fainted while they were recording, and started losing weight, too much weight. Still nobody could find anything. Still they were told that it was just anxiety.

Freddie screamed at the million doctors he hired, had the best international experts driven to them. They haven't known, and now it could be too late too late to fix and because they didn't know what exactly was happening they couldn't make it right.

Eventually a German radiologist found out what was going on. According to her findings, it was a complicated thing about nerves being bundles and being pressing some pain centers... difficult things very difficult to explain, very difficult to see. But with her guidance and a touch of surgery they could fix it, finally.

Roger could have lived his whole life with that pain, if his friends hadn't insisted... He would have, in the end, believed that he was inventing the pain, the it was his own fault. Maybe fallen into a depression... But now, now he just had a cool scar that he could show the ladies, and a nice a story.

“Thank you for believing me...You have changed my life.”

Brian smiled.

“You can always rely on me, Rog. I will always believe you.”

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by Gi

There was a man with a gun, and he had it pointed at Freddie. He was going to eradicate that fag menace from the world, so that no one else would be perverted by his antics and devil music. He was going to be a hero.

And then…

“Freddie, get down!”

Someone had seen him and moved the singer away from harm, while putting his own in the line of fire. Shit. He had shot the drummer – right in the chest. The man panicked and started running away, realizing what he’d done. He had an excuse to want to kill that singer (he was probably a homo, and a horrible influence) but what had that drummer done to him? He was a white man who enjoyed cars, much like him. The furthest thing from his intended victim. Shit.

“Shit SHIT Shit Shiiiit!!!”

Freddie didn’t know what to do, Freddie was at a complete loss on how to react. One minute he was calmly rehearsing his singing and the next minute, hell the next second someone appeared with a gun out of nowhere and suddenly there was a gunshot… He’d realized too late that the gun had been fired and he was quite sure that he was done for. There was no life flashing before his eyes, just a fleeting thought of “oh, god, is this really how I am going to die”?

And then he was on the floor, and there was no hole in him. He didn’t know how he0d made it to the floor, some part of him registered that someone had pushed him down, thus saving his life. But then only other person rehearsing with him had been…

“Roger?”

There was a loud noise, like something heavy falling.

“Roger?!”

He had been shot. Roger was laying on the floor, and there was a gunshot wound on his chest, not too far from where his heart was, that was bleeding profusely. Roger’s blue eyes were big and shocked, still not fully realizing what had happened.

Freddie snapped out of his trance and screamed for medical help, for someone to call an ambulance immediately, and tried to stop Roger’s bleeding with his shirt. His hands were shaking badly as he tried to fully take in what had happened. Roger had been shot, in the chest. Roger had been shot in the chest someone had wanted him, Freddie, dead. And that blond drummer he’d made fun of so many times had taken a bullet for him.

“Why would you do this, darling?”

Roger’s eyes were too bright and oddly focused. There was something final about how he was looking at his friend.

“Fred… I don’t... I don’t want to die.”

“Don’t even mention that, Rog, you will be fine, absolutely fine! This will just be a bad memory in no time.”

But Roger started to cough up blood, (Freddie nearly freaked out, uttering “oh god, OH GOD” every two seconds) and then… his eyes started closing.

“Don’t you dare, Roger Taylor! Hey, eyes on me!”

Roger looked so pale and fragile, Freddie’s shirt and hands were drenched in his blood, his face bloody too from all that blood he was coughing up... Shit, the bullet had probably pierced a lung! What should he do? What could he do? Roger’s eyes starting closing again and Freddie pressed the shirt stronger on the wound, making Roger let out a small scream.

“I’m sorry, but I need you with me.”

But not even that was enough, and the last thing Freddie saw before help arrived was Roger among all that blood passing out, becoming an unresponsive lifeless form.

“No, no, no, no!!”

No one was allowed to go with him in the ambulance because it was an special one with surgical instruments in case they needed to operate while en route, so Freddie and the rest of them wouldn’t know anything until they arrived at the hospital. Everyone was quite shocked and horrified at what had happened. Miami (who’d been the one driving him to the hospital) told him that the shooter had ben caught and was being taken to the police.

Huh. In this whole drama he hadn’t spared a single thought to that madman. All his thoughts were of Roger, their lively and fun drummer, their friend (Roger was one of his best friends, dammit!) who was now between life and death, with a hole in a lung, unconscious… He had looked so scared, so small when he’d told Freddie that he didn’t want to die.

In the hospital they kept telling them that they didn’t have any news, that when Roger was out of surgery they would be informed. But surgeries could be long, very long and everyone was very much on edge. They felt that they couldn’t even breathe until they knew something about Roger. Brian and Deaky arrived some time later, too.

“Anything?”

Miami shook his head.

He was feeling terrible about this whole thing. Even if there was no reason to fear for the guys safety and there had been some bodyguards on site (who were probably being fired in that moment), he wished he could have done more to ensure the safety of these guys. Sure, the blame lay with the shooter and no one else, but he couldn’t help feeling a bit responsible. And really sad.

He tried to keep things professional, these people were just clients, but he’d grown fond of these boys. They were vibrant, intelligent and different, so incredibly talented but at the same time they could be very warm. They, the incredible members of Queen, valued his opinion and input and were in general very nice lads.

Roger... well, he was a handful, and he had caused him and the rest of the managerial team a lot of headaches, but one couldn’t stop admiring his vitality, his unstoppable life-force, his incredible ability with those drums. He was intense, sometimes too much, but he was a very good friend, and a musician who had evolved and learned a lot right before their eyes. He deserved many many more years of playing, of singing, of partying. Better than being killed by a maniac.

The minutes went by slowly, and Freddie wished it was him on surgery, so he wouldn’t have to endure this agonic wait. The weight of what had happened was slowly sinking in. Roger had just saved his life – literally saved him from being murdered at the expense of his own health. That blond idiot had sacrificed himself so that he could live. It was so brave, so fearless… But Roger had always been those things, even if they didn’t tell him much. He’d been cool to take a lot of risks with the band, with them… He was a light shining on them and they wouldn’t bare it if…

There was a doctor... but called on another patient. They had asked everywhere, on reception, to passing nurses and other doctors, even to orderlies in case they knew anything. Miami had even spoken with the director of the hospital to tell him that a) this patient was to receive the absolute best care the hospital could provide and b) they were to be informed about absolutely everything. But still, nothing.

“Ugh, how long is that surgery?” Freddie complained, tearing up a pamphlet about hospital visitors dos and don’ts to shreds.

“They probably won’t tell us anything until he’s out of the operating table and stable.” Brian said. “Could be a while still.”

“But I need to know now!”

Brian wasn’t fidgeting, but looked awfully sad. Depressed. If something did happen to Roger, they would have to keep an eye on the guitarist, just in case. But no, everything was going to turn out okay. It had to.

It was three long hours later that somebody did come with some news.

“Family of Roger Taylor?”

“Here! How is he? Is he ok? When can we see him?”

“Fred, calm down. But yes, how did the surgery go?”

“There were no complications. We removed the bullets and closed the tear, undid all the damage we could. He will have to stay here at least a week, and even after he has a long way until he will be fully head, but he should make a full recovery.”

And then they could breathe, finally. Roger was going to be okay, he had survived, he was going to live – plague them with his nonsense for many more years. There were some tears of joy and some hugs and a lot of relieved sighs. It had almost ended in tragedy… but things were looking up.

Roger looked awful when they first went to see him, hooked up to a lot of machines, pale, his blonde pasty frame eaten up by the white of the bedsheets. Still, he smiled when he saw the others, even made some jokes about having to be declared a saint, because he was now “hole-y”. It was so good to see him awake and smiling again, even if he was still very delicate, very fragile.

Surprisingly enough, the hospital bill was paid by, of all people, the shooter. From prison, he had arranged to pay that and asked Miami to extend to Roger and his family his apologies. He felt awful, even his initial plan felt awful. Good, Miami thought, he deserved to have guilt eat him alive.

Freddie practically the whole week by Roger’s bedside, entertaining him, helping him with food, with everything. He wrote him a song called “Unsung hero”, and it was the most epic yet personal thing he’d written. Roger just smiled from his hospital bed as Freddie sang, letting the music wash away the pain.

Oh yeah, he may have called the song Unsung hero, but Freddie was going to make sure Roger was the most sung about hero in the history of rock and roll.


	20. Chapter 20

“Thank you all! We love you! Good night!”

They were saying goodbye to the crowd, almost out of the stage. Roger was standing behind his drums, drumsticks on one hand, feeling the love and smiling. Brian was close to him, with his guitar, a bit wanting to get away from all those people (he loved them, but he was exhausted). Deaky was on the front of the stage, Freddie had asked him to come say goodbye to the crowd – and Fred was next to him, standing behind his microphone, a look of pure satisfaction on his face.

And then it all went to hell. It was just one little moment, and everything was ruined, all the joy and the happiness from the concert dissipated, completely.

There was an explosion behind the stage, a big one, and it sent them all flying, to one side, to the stage, or even to the people. The crowd screamed and cried, some of them run back, scared, others thought it had to be part of the show, some trick, some special effect to end the show. It wasn’t. The explosion had been real (some faulty wiring connected to another machine and got over heated, and well, exploded). And the consequences of it were real too.

Freddie was lucky enough that he’d been propelled to the crowd and they caught him between some shocked fans – they stopped his fall, so he didn’t injure himself so badly, there was no impact. The others weren’t so lucky. When Freddie got to his feet after reassuring the million fans that he was okay (he was a bit dizzy and wobbly form the flight, but otherwise whole), he looked back at the stage and felt like crying. The scene that greeted looked like something from a movie… A tragedy.

All his friends were sprawled around the stage, apparently all knocked out by the blast. Deaky was on the left corner of the stage, one leg dangling. Brian was on the centre, lying face down, and Roger... Where on earth was Roger? There was no sign of him near the drum kit, which meant he'd been blow away quite far. Freddie could do nothing but scream.

"Help!!"

Deaky woke up in an ambulance, not knowing what was going on, what had happened. The last thing he remembered was that he was waving the crowds goodbye in the concert when he heard a loud noise. There was a bang, and he felt himself being lifted from the ground, and then there was nothing. He looked at the people on the ambulance with concern, and a kind looking paramedic told him:

"Don't worry, Mister Deacon, everything will be explained to you in the hospital."

But the hospital was chaos. There was so many people, so many doctors, patients, relatives, people trying to get a picture, people trying to get the doctors' attention... It was complicated to follow. Deaky just let people do, asked about his bandmates every occasion that he could. After getting his vitals checked by like two different doctors and a myriad nurses, they told him that somebody would come to stitch the cut on his arm and if after a couple he showed no signs of head injury, he would be released.

Well, that was good. While he was waiting for someone to stitch his cut, they let Freddie come visit. They were both exceedingly glad to see the other in one piece.

"Are you all right?" It was said at the same time, to each other. It allowed them to smile for a second.

"I'm fine." Freddie said, finally able to breathe - at least a little. Not knowing anything had been hell. "And you?"

"Cut myself on the edge of the stage and will get some bruises, but otherwise I'm fine. Do you know anything about Roger and Brian?"

Freddie shook his head.

"And I'm really fucking concerned because they were much closer to the blast than we were. AND NO ONE WILL TELL ME ANYTHING!"

He screamed at the room in general, hoping he was getting the message across. The silence about his bandmates was truly maddening. He just wanted something to hold on to, a simple "he's being tended to, you'll be able to see him shortly", or even a "he's been taken to surgery, because he broke his leg in the fall". Something. Hell, for all he knew, either of them could be de-. No. Don't even think it.

It's not until after they have stitched John's cut and getting his release papers ready that they get (finally!) some info on their missing bandmates. There were some good news and some awful news.

"Mr. May has three broken ribs, a fissure on a shoulder blade and some facial injuries. We were concerned because he spent too long unconscious, but the tests show no head injury. We'll keep him admitted at least 48 hours to make sure there are no head injuries and monitor the fractures, but he should make a full recovery."

"So we can see him?" Freddie said, and the doctor told them the room number. This was good news, wasn't it?

"What about Roger?"

The doctor seemed rather reluctant to talk about it. God, she hated giving bad news - this wasn't even her patient, she treated the other guy, but they were supposed to inform these people together... She sighed.

"Mr. Taylor suffered a severe head injury on impact. While there was no need for surgery and all his other injuries were treated and have a good prognosis... I'm sorry, but he's in a comatose state."

Roger was in a coma. Roger was in a coma. Roger...

"What are the chances that he'll...?" John asked, dreading the answer.

"Wake up? About 50% now, but they go down everyday he doesn't wake up. I really am sorry and wish I had better news."

"Can we see him?"

"When he's stable enough, I'll make sure you are let in."

Then she left, leaving the boys to have those news sink in. There were tears in John's eyes, when he realised that if there was fifty percent chance Roger would wake up... it was also fifty percent chance he wouldn't. There was a big chance that Roger wouldn't ever wake up again, that he would die because of his injuries... He was so young, he had so much life in him, and to lose all of that over some mechanical malfunction... How was that fair? How was that really happening?

Freddie didn't want to believe. The doctors were wrong, they made mistakes all the time. Roger was taking a bit longer to wake up, that was it, but there was no coma nonsense. They said that Brian had taken a while to wake up too, hadn't they? And his head had been fine. He'd just bee knocked out by the blast because he was close. But a coma, Roger? No, it was not possible. It couldn't be, there had to be some sort of mistake.

"Let's go see Brian" Freddie said, ignoring all the voices in his head telling him that he was about to lose a friend.

Brian looked awful. Both his lips were split and half of his was red, in what was going to become a huge bruise that crossed his face from above the left eye to nearly the mouth. His whole chest and one of his shoulders was covered in bandages, but he still looked hopeful and relieved when he saw them. Happy. Oh. Apparently nobody had told him yet.

"Hey! I was so worried, it's so good to see you in one piece... But why do you look..? Roger. What happened to Roger?"

Brian didn't take the news well. He just stayed silent, leaning on the pillows the nurses had put his back on. Great. So not only did he have to spend the next couple of weeks in terrible pain every time he try to move, every time he breathed too deeply... Now one of his best friends could very well never wake up again. There were simply no words. There was... nothing to say.

"But how are you feeling, Brian?"

The guitarist spoke with a very small voice.

"Please leave."

He needed to be alone.

The other two understood and left with a nod and the promise to come back to see him soon. And when they got to the lobby the doctor from before was there, telling them they could go see Roger if they wanted to.

It was... extremely hard for them to watch their friend like they did. Roger was hooked to a lot of machines that were making soft noises, still and pale under the bedsheets. It was so many kinds of wrong seeing Roger like that, he who had never been able to keep still, that unstoppable force of nature... And somehow it made everything true, it made everything real. Seeing him like that forced them to admit that Roger was, indeed, in a coma.

Deaky started sobbing, unable to hold back the tears any longer. Roger had been so important to him when he started on the band... He was always smiling, always speaking, he could talk about cars with him and made him feel...Accepted, part of everything. It was not fair that would have been so grievously injured, it was not fair that he could be taken from them so soon...

Freddie hugged him, hoping for some human contact that would minimise the horror of seeing Roger's lifeless face on that bed. Unmoving. "He'll make a very beautiful corpse" a morbid voice in Freddie's head said. No, no, he wouldn't! Roger had to live. There had to be a way. And he was going to find it.

Over the next weeks, Freddie developed a raging hatred for doctors. Nobody wanted to him a straight answer, and the few that did only wanted to tell him that there was practically no chance that Roger would wake up, if he hadn't in the first few days. And that was not an acceptable answer, so he hated the doctor and looked for another one. Anyone, anywhere that might have a way an idea about how to bring Roger back. Where there's life there's hope, right?

He would go to Roger's room every day for an hour or so, and catch him up on whatever was going on.

"There's some sort of lawsuit against the manufacturers of the machine, but I won't bore with that. Do you want me to read you one of these fan letters wishing you well? They're so lovely, so many girls sending you good luck charms, and hoping with all their little hearts you'll wake up... Which you absolutely have to, darling, you rest up whatever you need but you come back, ok?"

John didn't want to go back much until Roger was better. He didn't want to think about what had happened, he didn't want to see it, even if it was everywhere. In the press, on the tv, in the hopelessness on his friend's eyes. But he didn't want to see it anymore, so he closed himself up at home, looking longingly at the telephone, waiting for the day when someone would call and tell him "he woke up." He waited, and waited, and waited.

Brian was awfully quiet since everything had happened. His doctors had been worried that he wasn't eating enough and that he didn't seem well rested even after many hours of sleep, but as his injuries were healing well, they were forced to release him. Still, Brian was there almost every day. Sitting quietly by Roger's bedside, with a sorrowful, grief-stricken look in his eye. Sometimes he cried a little. Sometimes he held his friend's hand, to at least tell himself that it warm because he was alive.

Now that his other injuries had healed, Roger looked like he was sleeping. He'd lost some weight and looked bonier now, but he could have been just sleeping. Now he only had to wake up.

"You have to come back, Rog." Brian asked him, with a touch of despair in his voice. "I miss you. You can't go like this."

There were songs, there were vigils on his name. There were tributes, moments of silence, Roger was in the heart of every rock fan and musician. John, Freddie and Brian tried to continue with their lives, but couldn't. Not when the was such a gaping hole in their lives.

It was two months, one week and five days when something changed.

A pair of blue eyes opened, and saw three excited faces.

"What happened?"

He woke up. Against all odds, he woke up.

.... And the entire world cheered when he did.

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by SmittyJaws in Chapter 13. Hope you like!

When Roger woke up, it was dark, and cold, oh so terribly cold.

The last thing he remembered was a sharp pain on the side of his head, and then there had been nothing. And now he was waking p, not knowing where he was, with a gash on the side of his head. It hurt, but the pain was somehow numbed by the cold.

Roger could see his own breathing, and after some moments of profound disorientation and confusion, he managed to understand where he was, and why it was so cold, what had happened. Someone had knocked him out and thrown him inside a walk-in freezer. He freaked out a bit when he realised that. Who had put him in here? Why would they do such a thing? He suddenly saw himself as a frozen corpse, too cold to be compatible with life. No, no, no!

He got up, and even if he was still quite dizzy from the blow to his head and quite unsteady on his feet, he was able to locate the door of the freezer and walk towards it. But it was locked, and no matter how much he tried to open it, no matter what he did, how many times he punched and kicked that door, how many times he tried to move the screws, something that would get that steel giant thing to move and let him out, it wouldn't budge.

He pounded on the door, strongly, and screamed for help. He called and called, made all sort of sounds, but there was no one on the other side, only silence. He kept hoping that maybe if he made a lot of noise eventually someone would come, eventually someone would hear him so he cried for help, over and over... No one was coming.

After a while it became harder to keep banging and screaming. It was so terribly cold, and Roger only had energy to try and keep himself warm. He sat on the floor, and looked at the packets of meat in front of him, his only company. He had no idea if it was day or night, so he had no idea of how many hours more would this place be deserted. It was a horrible sensation, knowing that there was nothing more he could do (he was too tired, too cold, and not strong enough to open that damn door) and that he depended on someone from the outside coming in opening the freezer and finding him.

What if it was an odd hour, like 1 am? No one would come for many many hours, and by the time someone found him he would be dead. What if this wasn't the freezer of a restaurant, but some place more private, where they only occasionally used meat and the things stuffed in here? Then he would be dead several times over by the time they found him.

He wondered how long it would take Queen to get a new drummer. Part of him hoped that whoever it was, people would like them less and everybody would say “Queen was better with Roger”. He wondered if there would be vigils and tribute shows for him, he wondered what songs they would write about him (because they would, of course they would, they would write so many songs, calling him an angel, an angry angel who drummed...)

Another shiver, coursed through him, his body desperately trying to get warm but failing completely. He'd put his hands on the pockets of his jeans to try and keep them warmer, away from the cold, but they were so cold that they hurt and it was getting more scary... What if he lived but they had cut off his fingers? O r his whole hands? What would he do without hands? It wasn't just that he wouldn't be able to play drums, he wouldn't be able to play anything else either! He wouldn't be able to feed himself, to smoke, to do anything! Terrible. Horrible.

He breathed into his hands, rubbed them against each other. What was the point? By the time they found all parts of him would be frozen, his heart stopped, his breathing gone, all of him frozen in time and place because someone had decided to lock him up in a freezer. He vaguely wondered who it could have been, who hated him so much not just to want him dead, but in a way that was slow, in a way that he spent hours asking for help and receiving none...He shivered again. Some things were better not to think about – listing all the people that would like to see him dead wasn't going to help matters now, not at all.

So instead he thought of the people that didn't want him dead, the people that would be sad that he had died in those terrible circumstances. First off, the fans. They would be heartbroken and devastated those poor people. He knew that he had lots of fans, not just young girls lusting, but also other drummers, and all types of musicians. He liked to imagine that other bands and singers would be sad too, and maybe there would be some sad songs about him from bands other than Queen.

But of course, Queen would be the most affected. Freddie would throw a fit, he would probably trash room, and get super drunk in his honour... He would claim that nobody could replace Roger, that he had been a unique soul with the spirit of some mythical creature that only he knew about, and that the world had lost one of its greatest lights. Something grandiloquent like that. In every party there would a toast to him with a similarly excessive comparison. He would make sure everyone remembered him as much as he should be remembered.

John... He would be devastated, too, because they'd been quite friendly. Where the bassist could be a bit shy, Roger was the opposite, and they had made a nice team, helped each other out. Maybe John would be absolutely opposed to getting a new drummer, maybe he would be the one to complain and spit venom in the direction of his replacement, only because this new person simply wasn't Roger. Yeah, he could see that happening.

And Brian... Oh, god, Brian. Out of all of them, he was the one with a more pronounced proclivity to getting very fucking sad – what would this do to him? He would tell everyone that he was ok, but break down when he was alone. Brian was going to miss him, he knew, even if they had fought so much sometimes it felt like the taller man would be happier if they never saw each other again. But... they'd known each other for long, they were part of the other's lives...

It was getting harder to breathe. It was getting harder to do anything, with all the cold that was making everything so difficult. He'd stopped shivering some time ago, and some place in his head he knew that was bad. He knew that breathing less and more slowly was probably bad too, he wished for a final chance, for more music before he closed his eyes, too tired, too...

***

There was someone calling him, asking if he could hear them. There was light and it hurt his eyes, and there was movement. Roger smiled to himself as he was moved. At least now it wasn't so cold.

**

There were voices arguing and it took him a while to figure out what they were saying.

“No, Fred, I don't think there's any way you can bring a fireplace to a hospital room!”

“Don't sound so hostile, dear, I am just trying to keep him warm.... Yes, I know we've brought three heaters and those little heating machines, but will it be enough? I want him to feel like he's in the Caribbean at least, to make up for that nightmare!”

It had been indeed a terrible nightmare. The only reason why Roger had made it was that one of the workers of the restaurant used to steal meat some nights to sell it on the neighborhood, and had had come across the nearly frozen Roger. He'd left just before the ambulance arrived (to avoid having to confirm that yes, he had been there stealing and had to go to prison) but later called to the hospital to find out about “that blonde dude that was found half frozen”. And was very glad to hear that the blonde dude was now awake and was going to keep all his fingers.

It had been a close call, because the fingers and toes had been quite frozen, but the medical team, with a lot of patience and warm water, were able to return the appendages to their usual state.

The other three came to visit to him every day, and updated him on how the investigation about who had done that to him was going. They also brought him all sorts of warm and hot drinks and foods, and made sure that the room was absolutely never cold.

But they really didn't need to, not anymore. Simply being with such caring people warmed his heart.

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by MichaelMyersGirl

They were in a bus in the middle of nowhere, it was the wee hours in the morning (everything was oh so dark) when Roger started breathing funny. He'd left his cigarette unfinished because he couldn't breathe all that well, as time passed it was becoming more and more difficult to simply draw breath. Shit.

He coughed, but that somehow made things worse. Huh. There were others were already sleeping (sometimes they had sleep on the road to get next city on the tour, but bus had beds for all of them) and he was the only one awake, apart from the driver. He tried to breathe deeply. It was somehow complicated and painful to just breathe. Huh. That was probably not good.

He'd had a bad cold the last couple of weeks, but that was gone now. Still, the cough remained, and it was preventing him from sleeping. He was really fucking tired and didn't want to wake up everyone else with his coughing, so he tried to keep his coughs to the minimum and cough into his sleeves, but it was becoming harder. Why wouldn't this cough leave him alone? The tours were already tiring enough without having to stay all these nights up, coughing his lungs out.

Usually, he was the life of the party. He could perform everything without a single mistake, and then party at night, and entertain some ladies after the parties had ended. And the next day he was still fresh, energetic, ready to drum some more and party much more. Maybe even thinking about concepts for new songs, maybe had some fights the others, maybe just played some cards. But he didn't stay still much on the same place, and that was the way he liked it.

But lately, he felt... spent. Everything made him tired, and he was exhausted during the day, and coughing too much during the night to rest properly. It wasn't fair, why couldn't he sleep like the rest of them? Why couldn't he breathe like the rest of them? Probably should have cut down on the smoking, he knew, but it had never been a problem before... Before things had been (more or less fine)

But tonight things were different, he could tell. It was just the coughing, now he was wheezing, loudly, in between coughs. It was... unsettling. He was more and more short of breath, was he imagining that tightness in his chest....? What he was imagining was the awful sounds he was making while trying to breathe, that were very much real and ended up waking up his very asleep bandmates.

The first one was Deaky, who woke up to some harsh dry cough and the longest wheezing sounds he'd ever heard. Where was that coming from? He went to the source of the noise and found his blondest friend, sitting on his bed, trying to breathe.

“Roger?”

Roger looked up to see John with sleepy eyes and all his hair messed up.

“I can't...” Oh, god, now it was becoming harder to speak too, apart from being impossible to breathe. Great. Grand.

“Why do you sound so bad?”

“Is it still that cold? I thought you had recovered, Rog.”

Great. Now Brian was there too, appearing from the sounds all worried looking, all tall and lanky.

“Do colds make you wheeze like that?” Deaky answered, knowing the answer full well.

“No, they don't.” Brian said. “They don't. Roger, are you feeling anything else? Do you have any other symptoms? Apart from the coughing and wheezing?”

“Can't... breathe... chest... feels tight...can't... talk well...”

Brian looked suddenly ten times more concerned.

“That sounds like asthma, doesn't it?”

“I thought you had to have it since you were a kid... You don't have asthma, do you, Roger?”

Roger shook his head, and another voice came from the other side of the bus.

“It can happen when you're an adult, too. If you've had a bad breathing infection, or if you're around smokers a lot.” It was the driver, describing something that did sound like Roger. “Which is bad, because I assume no one has an inhaler around.”

Brian and John shared a worried look, and Brian went to talk to the driver (who seemed to be the most knowledgeable of all them) and Deaky stayed with Roger, trying to help him to breathe, trying to get him calmer, finding him some water.

“Um, hi...” Brian said, shy. He was sure they'd introduced him to the driver, but...

“Name's Joshua. My sister's boy has asthma so I know a couple of things about it.”

“How far are we from any place that will have medical care?”

“I think we're about half an hour from the next city, but I can ditch the speed limit so we can be there in 15-20 minutes. If we get fined I'll just say it was a medical emergency.”

“Good, good, thanks. And what can we do to help Roger in the mean time?”

“Get him to sit upright, it's best position for the air to pass. Try to get him to take long deep breaths, as much as he can, and to be calm. Sometimes coffee helps, but only for an hour or two.”

“Time is exactly what we need. Thank you so much, Joshua.”

In the back of the bus, things were getting tense. Deaky was trying to get Roger to breathe but it was becoming more and more difficult, and both him and Roger were getting scared that eventually he would stop breathing. All his attempts at long breaths ended up in painful coughing, and agonic wheezing. It was a full blown asthma attack and as much as they searched the first aid kit, there were no inhalers.

Roger was just there, sitting and trying to breathe in a road in the middle of nowhere at three am. It was scary, and the keeping calm part was becoming more and more complicated. Roger was tired and afraid, and his chest felt tight and painful. He was so tired, but he couldn't do anything besides trying to breathe. He looked at his friends with pain filled blue eyes and it was the only comfort he could find, that at least he wasn't alone in this ordeal.

“We'll be in a hospital in no time, you'll see.” Brian said, trying to smile and rubbing circles in one of his hands, Roger's only source of comfort in this living nightmare.

Deaky appeared with a cup of coffee and it did help take the edge, but it wasn't enough. He was still coughing, and wheezing and his chest still felt very wrong. By the time they arrived at the nearest city's ER (breaking practically every traffic law), Roger felt he was going to pass out from not being able to breathe. It was horrible, for him and for the people watching him become more listless, more scared.

Gratefully, as soon as they arrived the doctors saw the severity of Roger's condition and acted with no hesitation. There were inhalers, and there was something miraculous called a nebulizer that was a machine with an oxygen mask attached to it that was like a blow of fresh air directly in his throat and lungs. Roger closed his eyes, happy to be able to breathe again.

When he opened them, he was smiling, smiling for real, and his friends (and driver), who had been looking so terribly worried only moments ago, smiled back. It had been scary, hearing and seeing Roger look so bad, practically stop breathing when they were in the middle of nowhere. It could have got so much worse... so much more severe. A grave asthma attack could last for many hours, even land you in the intensive care unit if it refused to clear up. It was serious business.

The first aid kit was increased and stocked with a lot of asthma medication after that, of course. Joshua was given a special commendation and all the free Queen merch he wanted. Roger had wanted to thanks his friends a bit more, so he bought John a set of new amplifiers for him to tinker with and Brian a new telescope. They'd given him his breath back, it was the least he could do.

And from that day on, Roger stopped taking every breath for granted. (And began taken an inhaler, just in case).

 


	23. Chapter 23

Roger and Freddie were so incredibly absolutely drunk that they could hardly keep themselves standing. The night was young and warm, they had a bunch of great songs that they'd recorded and got themselves more concerts and they were going to be staaaaaars. They were very yound and very happy and they were great artists and were telling anyone that would listen that they were.

“Do you know we're in a band? We're called Queeeeeeeeeeen”

They were even thrown out of one of the bars, glasses and all, because of all the racket they were creating. But did they care? Nope, they didn't. Brian was trying to do some damage control with the bartenders while Roger and Freddie danced something that they wanted to call rock and roll ballet, with them glasses still in their hands. Of course an accident was going to happen.

Roger hardly even noticed, how one of the glasses had broken and slice a nice long part of his forearm, how it started bleeding and how he had bit of glass all over his arm and parts of his shirt. It felt... almost nice, the bleeding. His crazy drunken kind of wanted to lick the blood, see how it tasted. He had never been so wasted in his entire life.

“Look Fred... blood of champions!” Roger said, laughing at himself.

“Red gold, red gold!” Freddie sang in his loud impressive voice “more precious than gold because you need it to liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive...” That gave him pause.

“God, Rog, you need it to live, shouldn't we be doing something?”

“I want to lick it. Do you think I'll taste good?”

“Oh, I'm sure you taste delicious honey, with how pretty you are, but I mean, like.... shouldn't we be healing it, or something. Oh, dear, Roger, you're bleeding a lot.”

“I'm feeling a bit dizzy, but I think it's because...” And then Roger started whispering, as if he were telling a scret “but I think that's because I drinked a bit too much.”

“Look at all the blood on the floor, this is... Oh, god, Roger! Oh, god, oh no!”

Freddie's very drunken knew he had to do something but wasn't functioning properly enough to figure out that he had to stop the bleeding. That he had to put pressure on the wound. No, he could just see pale blond, his super partying BFF bleeding out on that floor and smiling at him. This was wrong.

“Roger, your blood!”

Thankfully, his desperate got the attention of somebody who would knew how to do something.

“What is going on?”

*

Brian had been paying the bartender and apologising profusely (fortunately, the man wasn't too angry about the glasses and damage, and was really glad that at least someone had stayed behind and apologised – most drunkards didn't) when he heard the loud scream that was probably heard through the whole length of that street.

“Roger, your blood!”

Now, that was an strange thing to scream, even for Freddie. Hoping it was some sort of game or maybe a song or something, Brian approached his drunken friends, hoping for some peace of mind.

“What's going on?”

What was going on was that Roger had an arm sliced in two and was apparently unbothered by it, just bleeding into the pavement.

“Briaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan!” Roger smiled at him, despite... well, everything.

Brian sighed. He wasn't all that sober himself, and he was going to have to deal.... with everything.

“John, call a cab, tell them to be quick and to take to the nearest hospital. Then you take Freddie and give him some coffee before he maims himself too, all right? Thanks, buddy.”

John left with an undefinable expression. A mystery, that man. 

“Now, what are we going to do about you?”

First things first, he had to stop the hemorrhage, he had to bandage the, put some nice pressure. There were no such thing as bandages around, so shirts would have to do. Roger's shirt (if he had even been wearing one in the first place) had been forgotten in who knew which bar, and now was firmly located in oblivion. Freddie was wearing some gauze thing that would break just at touching it, so the choice seemed clear. Brian had to use his own shirt.

(A more sober version of him would have gone to the bar and asked for medical supplies, but eh, he was doing what he could)

He bandaged the wound tightly after clearing out all the pieces of glass, hoping that he hadn't missed any. Roger moaned and complained, but didn't offer much resistance. When they entered the cab he just decided to take a nap in Brian's chest, after simply saying “I'm sleepy.” a bump on the road awoke him some minutes later, and he had no memory of... anything.

There was just a white bloodstained shirt covering half his arm, which was kind of numb and sore, and he was sleeping on someone warm and nice-smelling.

“Who is...? Someone I slept with...? Someone that I am going to-”

“Roger it's just me.”

“Briaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan”

God, he was still very fucking drunk. At least Brian was hoping that it was that, and Roger wasn't all sleepy and disoriented because of blood loss, which would be much more serious.

“Where are we going, Bri?”

"To the hospital."

“Why?” Roger was suddenly worried “are you sick?”

There was a blood stained pale hand on Brian's face, on his eyes, everywhere. Brian gently took it off, but actually thought it was touching that Roger would be so worried, even in his super drunk state.

“It's for your arm, Rog, it probably needs stitches.”

Roger looked at his arm and if he couldn't figure out what Brian meant.

“This is your shirt.”

“I know, Rog.”

“It'sssssssss ruined. Sorrry.”

“Don't worry, just do me a favour and pay attention to the doctors when we to the hospital, all right?”

No such luck. Roger was still in party mode, and had no intention of standing still. When after twenty minutes after going to a treatment room one of the doctors came to him, Brian feared the worst.

“What did he do?”

“He's drenched three nurses. Keeps repeating that we will bathe in his blood, and that he won't stop until we name him “the greatest drummer and singer to ever exist on Earth and in space too”. It's a nightmare. Perhaps if you were there....”

Brian sighed and went to the room, where Roger was there, still shirtless with his injured arm dancing around and a face full of enthusiasm, while the medical personnel around him seemed to be at end of their rope.

“Briaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan”

“Rog, hey, you need to calm down so these people can look after you. It's important.”

“But I don't want to stay still, it's borinnnnng.”

Sometimes dealing with Roger was like having a small child. He sat down in front of the drummer,on a chair kindly provided by an bloodied orderly and thought of something.

“Tell you what, I'm gonna say a game, and you'll want to win.” On the side, Brian indicated the doctors to go taking the arm, while he had Roger distracted. The blonde was in a world of his own, in some odd state between drowsiness and drunken euphoria. He didn't know where he was very well, or why he was there, but he knew his friend.

“Were your legs always so long? My god, what sort of poodle-giraffe hybrid....”

“Roger! I'm going to say a guitarist and you'll have to have to reply with an ever better drummer, ok? So you'll need to focus, or else me and the rest of guitarists of the world will win.”

“NEVER”

“So, focus....”

*

The next morning Roger woke up with seven stitches and a lot of bandages on his arm, half a litre of new tranfused blood on him and the hangover of the millenium. He downed five glasses of water in a row, and couldn't believe his headache. His arm didn't hurt that much, he didn't know becaue of painkillers or because the hangover was a million times worse, but he'd dealt with cuts before, he would live after this too. But.... memories started coming to him and he looked at the doctor in front of him with horror.

“Oh. I didn't.... I didn't really promise to.... bathe you in my blood, did I?”

“You did, Mr. Taylor. You were quite rowdy and uncontrollable, it took us a good while to calm you down, thank god your friend was still here. Do you want me to call him?”

“Sure.”

Brian came in a few short seconds later.

“You look terrible.” He said.

Roger was thrown on that bed that only made him look paler, one arm bandaged, terrible dark shadows from a restless night and in general, nothing like his usual prince of beauty look.

“You can talk!”

Brian was in his undershirt that still had blood stains from the previous night and seemed to have spent the whole night up. Roger sighed.

“I'm sorry about.... well, myself.”

“Never apologise for that, Rog. And what are friends for, huh?”

Real friends bathe in each other's blood and are cool with it.

Because that's what they're there for.

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by Anonymous (chap 13) and SmittyJaws (chap 14) who wanted mugging

The snow was falling on Roger's prone form, softly, slowly, eliciting no reaction from the prone blonde drummer. He was unconscious, and not even the cold snow was enough to wake him up. He had been beaten up too badly to be woken up so easily. And because the weather was so bad, very few people were on the streets of Moscow. Only low-lives and homeless people, trying to find anything to keep warm. Like a coat, like the one Roger had been wearing. The coat that had been his undoing.

_Mikhail saw that foreigner with that fancy looking coat and smiled to himself. This was going to be a snowy night, and his own jacket was full of holes and he could really use with something more warm than that. He was tired of all the cold, tired of trying to warm himself with low quality vodka. That foreigner looked like he had more jacket than that one. Hell, he may even have some money. Yes, this was going to be a good day fro Mikhail._

It was red on white, the blood from Roger's many injuries, staining the thin white coating on the floor with bright red. It was dangerous for him, to be getting this cold, time passing so irrevocably while he go no medical attention. While he only got colder and colder, with little chance of being found.

Nobody knew he'd been attacked, nobody knew he was there. He was supposed to have gone back to his room, but nobody would be surprised if he wasn't, they would just assume he was out there partying, having fun with the locals, enjoying himself in some bar. Nobody would know that anything was wrong, so nobody would look for him.

_He had fought him. That blonde foreigner looked like a lightweight, but he had a lot of fight in him. Mikhail even thought for some moment that he was going to lose that fight, that this English person was going to get the best of him. But he managed to land some nice blows on the rib cage, on the man's chest, and then knocked him out with his last bottle of booze. It was a waste of the end of the bottle, but it was worthwhile. This man, whoever he was, had lots of money on his wallet, and his clothes were soft and warm... The best Mikhail ever had._

“благодарю вас"

Roger had some broken ribs, but that wasn't the worst. He had broken ribs before, and even though they were very painful, they were something one could recover from. But the head wound... There were pieces of glass smeared on it still, and his face was covered in blood. The impact had been on a very sensitive place of his head, and it was unlikely that he would wake up in the next few hours. Which meant that he would spent the whole night outside, as more snow feel on him and hid him, complicating his situation even more.

_Roger had woken up for a bit after Mikhail left. His head hurt, badly, and his teeth were chattering from the cold of the Russian night. That.. person hadn't just taken the money from his wallet, he had also stolen his coat and the jacket underneath, leaving him to shiver on the night. He tried to get up, he really tried but the floor was too slippery, and he couldn't manage to stand up upright._

“ _HELP! Please, help!”_

_But there was no one to hear his cries, no one to help him. He was alone, broken and stranded in a far away street where there was no one. Every one had left after the concert, especially knowing that it was going to be a snowy night. Roger felt tears prickling at his eyes. He could hardly walk, it was way too cold and there was no one around to hear him, no one around to help him. His head hurt too much, so did his chest and it was too cold, so absolutely cold._

“ _HELP!”_

_Roger just wanted to stop being cold, he just wanted his coat back, he wanted someone warm to embrace him, to stop this cold that hurt so much. He was going to die, and he was going to die being so cold... Just because he had a nice coat on a very cold winter night. He wondered if the cold would preserve his body. He wondered if he would make a beautiful body._

_Because no help was coming and after some minutes he passed out again. Roger Taylor, possibly one of the most famous people that were on Moscow that night, and he was unconscious on the snow, forgotten, abandoned, and badly injured._

_And too far for any help to come._

_*_

Freddie, John and Brian had been let in on the room despite their friend's delicate condition.

When he'd been found, Roger had almost all his limbs frozen. Twenty minutes more and he would have lost several fingers, the doctors told them. He'd been found in the nick of time, by a homeless woman who hadn't left Roger's side until she'd known that he was with friends and being looked after.

A woman who had been looking for her stray cat and had found a badly hurt, broken down angel. Sasha hadn't known who Roger was, hadn't even known who Freddie was when he hugged her and thanked her a million times for finding his friend, for saving Roger's life. If it hadn't been for her... She wasn't homeless anymore, of course, Freddie was going to make sure that she had a nice place to spend the cold Russian nights.

Roger looked very calm, sleeping in his hospital room. His head had been bandaged and so had his chest, a good part of his stomach and any other place where Mikhail had hit him. He was now receiving the best care available, and his limbs were looking... better. When he had been found he had looked awful, so small and pale like Snow white herself.

When Freddie had been told that Roger was in the hospital he'd imagined that he had overdone himself with the alcohol, and was ready to scold him a bit, although he knew that Brian and John would win on that terrain. He was a bit too wild sometimes, their dearest drummer, a bit too excessive and they had known that at some point he would get in trouble. He was always getting in trouble back home too, but people were more lenient with him, because he was charming, and good looking and well known. But it wouldn't last forever.

Brian's first thought was that Roger had gotten himself on a fight with some angry Russian. He would fly off the handle very easily, and people in Moscow... well, a lot of them were very drunk, and didn't take kindly to an angry looking blonde saying words they didn't understand. He had probably angered the wrong person and ended up being beaten up for his troubles. Brian had just hoped that the injuries weren't too severe, and that he hadn't damaged his hands or head (his main work instruments) too badly. He hadn't been prepared for what he saw in that room, for Roger all bandaged and innocent looking. It had been a blow.

John hadn't known what to think, but imagined that it was something to do with the cold. It was way too cold, and Roger was always going around half-naked, showing off his chest... He was going to get a bad cold, it was a miracle they all hadn't. Russia was really a very inhospitable place. And it was winter and really... Roger could be a bit reckless, and this town was no place for recklessness.

They hadn't expected for the incident not to be Roger's fault, they hadn't expected him to be a victim. But that was what he was, and that was how he looked in that white, covered in so many bandages. A white prince, a blameless victim

“When will he wake up?” Brian asked, a concerned look in his eye.

“He should wake up.... what is word... already. We have trouble to bring temperature up.” The doctor said, in the best English he knew.

So, of course, the rest of members of Queen decided that the best way to bring p Roger's temperature was body heat. And that they would do anything to get his friend to be all right again.

When Roger opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was how warm and nice it was. The last thing he remembered was a cold that hurt his very soul... And now he was cocooned in the warmest bed ever. And it was just the bed and the blankets that were warm, there was a lot of body heat, too. There was Brian sleeping in front of him, John behind, all very close.

Roger smiled to himself and decided to sleep a bit more.

And wished he could bury himself in that warmth forever and ever.

 


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by Sophie in chapter 16

It started like a numb pain behind his eyes. Odd but manageable.

Maybe he should have known something before – he’d had episodes in the past, when he had a headache and the lights or loud noises hurt him even worse. Sometimes in one side of the head, sometimes in the other, sometimes in both. But generally always made worse by loud noises. This was a classic sign of a migraine, right?

But Roger had never made the connection. He was young and healthy, he couldn’t have… conditions. That was not a great quality when one was a rock and roll drummer. Loud noises were kind of part of the job – something quite unavoidable. Fortunately, it didn’t happen very often. Until that one day where it happened too much.

“Good evening, Glasgow!”

The concert was absolutely packed and it promised to be a long, exciting night. Roger had a bit of a headache, but had taken some aspirin to hopefully minimize it, even if he had an inkling that this was going to be a bad one. One of those that took over his whole head and lasted for a very long time. Roger let out a little sigh before going out to the stage when he wasn’t 100%. If he was unwell when he started by the end of the performance…

He felt that the public deserved more that that and he ended up very angry with himself for not having been the drummer he could be, he wanted to be. It bothered him a great deal. But he would go out there and he would perform, for better or worse. They had gone in worse conditions before, hungover, sleep deprived, hell Brian had even performed while gravely ill. He could do this too. Maybe the headache would fade as he got more and more into the concert, maybe he would be so into the music that and the concert that his stupid headache would disappear on the background, be forgotten.

The opposite was what happened. As he got out and heard all the crowd shouting for them it was like a nightmare on his eardrums. His headache only got worse, sharper, stronger, more overpowering. But he could make it – there was no other choice.

He focused on the drumsticks, on the beat, on each stroke, on each moment, not even able to know if he would make it to the next one. He had never a headache like this, it was… way too big, way too horrible. The world seemed to disappear in a whirlpool of pure hot white pain. The drumstick slipped from his fingers and he closed his eyes. This was too much. The pain in his head was throbbing, pulsing.

He… couldn’t continue anymore. His vision was becoming blurry, and he was not able to hold to anything. He couldn’t see properly and the sounds from the world outside only hurt him even more. He kept trying to soldier on, keep playing… Looked for the missing drumstick but couldn’t find it. The world outside kept hurting him and he couldn’t bear it anymore. His head seemed to be trying to kill him. He put his hands on his ears and closed his eyes, trying to drown out the sound and light. It was a good thing that he was sitting in front of his drum kit, because if he wasn’t, he would have fallen down.

When he tentatively opened his eyes again kind eyes were looking at him.

“Come with me.”

Somebody took him somewhere dark and silent, someone that was staying with him. Roger didn’t think about the show, about how they’d been in the middle of everything. He didn’t think about anything at all, because even thinking was too hard, too painful.

He wasn’t… he was just letting the time pass, in the darkness with his eyes closed, hoping that the pain would pass soon. Letting the minutes pass until the world wasn’t so painful anymore.

Roger barely registered when the nausea became too overwhelming and he threw up in a corner of his dark room, hardly noticed someone holding his hair back and cleaning his mouth and face afterwards, because the person with him was blissfully silent the whole time. And still the pain wouldn't let up, didn't stop continuing to eat him up, from both sides of his head.

For some time, it felt like the pain was never going to end. Time went by horribly slowly and his head still hurt, even in the little dark corner in his little dark room where he was made a ball, with his eyes tightly shut and his hands on his ears so that the world wouldn't hurt him anymore... Maybe the pain would never end, and he wouldn't be able to play again, maybe he would become some sort of recluse, unable to go back into the light, in that horrible pain, forever....

He could hear his own breathing, and it was at least somewhat calming. That he could still breathe, that even in that hell he was alive, and able to make it, possibly. After what felt like centuries, the pain started to die down. Even though he was still a bit wobbly, Roger managed to keep his eyes opened and even tried to get up, with the other person helping him. (Was it Brian? He thought it was Brian)

“How...long?”

“A bit over seven hours.” Brian said, in the softest lowest voice ever. Roger was glad that it was the guitarist that stuck with him, because his voice wasn't loud or shrill, it was calm and low and soothing.

Roger looked at his bandmate with surprise and horror after hearing how long it had been.

“The... show?”

“It's been postponed. You don't need to worry, ok?”

Roger blinked a few times, trying to find his footing again, trying to come back to his senses.

“Is this the first time you've had a migraine?” Brian asked, in his soothing, mellow voice. They hadn't turned on the lights yet.

“I've had headaches... but never this bad.”

Brian shot a kind smile his way. But Roger was scared, scared not just that form this moment on he would have to go through this horror more than once (and what if there was no medication? what if he was told to wait the pain out?) but also about his place in the band. What if they didn't want him anymore? What if they looked for someone else, someone who didn't have a problem with loud noises (they were a rock band, goddammit), what if....

“Don't.... don't get.... someone else...” even if the brunt of the headache had gone, he'd feeling left feeling exhausted and doing something that required as much concentration as talking was challenging, to say the least. “I can.... still play.”

“We're not getting someone else, Rog, we wouldn't even think about it. You're so important for us, you know that. Just tell us when you think you're getting a bad headache, ok? So we can take somewhere it won't hurt as much.”

After this whole fiasco Roger had been left feeling not just extremely tired, but inexplicably sad and drained of energy. It took still some time until they turned on the lights and got out of that room. Freddie and John (who had had to deal with producers and the like while still extremely worried for what may have happened to their friend) were embracing him and asking him how he was the moment he was out, and embracing him looking him in the eye with concern, trying to make sure that he was really fine... Even after making them stop a concert, probably getting them in trouble with producers, managers, tour operators...

“We were so worried” Freddie said “you had us really scared, darling. Let's get you some tea, can you handle some tea? And I'll take with my contacts, find you the best specialist on this sort of things, ok?”

Roger was suddenly relieved, and knew that he wold be able to go to sleep without that cloud of worry looming over him. Other bands, he knew, would had told him that “they had to let him go”, “that “it's for the good of the band”, but with Queen...

He'd been very lucky, and he hoped to continue being that lucky, to have those people in his life for a long long time.

 


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by Anonymous on chapter 13

It happened without any warning. Roger had never had episodes like that, so he wasn't expecting something like it to happen. Nobody would expect something like that, to be honest, why would they? He was young and healthy, maybe the healthiest of them all, despite all his smoking and drinking. It was not anything that was normal.

They were having some argument about the bass line or something of the song, but Roger, still sat on his drum kit, was having some trouble to focus, to hear what was being said, to participate. No matter how he tried, he felt... off. And only getting more and more off, as if the offness increased as time went on. It was something hard to explain, something that had happened only maybe one or two times before this, but never as strong, never as lasting.

He felt some sort of distance with himself. He felt he was getting out of his body, watching it from above, and no matter how much he blinked and tried to get back inside, he couldn't. It was an odd feeling, looking at his hands and not feeling that they were his own, not feeling that he was inside that flesh, inside that skin. Feeling that he was away.

And then he stopped feeling altogether.

The other three members of the band just heard the noise of someone falling, weren't there in time to stop Roger from colliding into his drum set. His eyes rolled up in his head, and he fell, gracelessly, fast and heavy against the drums in front of him, injuring his forehead and shoulder and into the floor, where he convulsed for a bit.

“Shit!”

It was quite a scary sight for the other three, who were for a moment petrified, rooted to the floor, trying to understand what was happening. The first thought that went through Freddie's head was “what's he playing to now?” unable to understand that this was something medically serious that was happening to Roger. John and Brian were at his side in no time, even if it was scary.

So terribly scary. Roger eyes were white, and he was moving uncoordinately and he looked... wrong. There was blood in his mouth and on the gash on his forehead and John just got the drums and anything else away so that Roger wouldn't hurt himself any further. Several people called an ambulance, all of them screaming that this was very urgent. For a couple of minutes the world stopped spinning, there was nothing in the world but Roger, who had been perfectly fine some minutes ago and was now injured, in some state between consciousness and passing out, perhaps victim of some terrible illness.

When he came back to his senses, the world felt blurry, odd. The last thing he remembered, very clearly, was sitting on his drum kit chair, listening to the argument that was happening, that they're bandmates had been carrying out. He'd wanted to speak, but there was too much saliva in his mouth, and he couldn't manage to produce any words. And suddenly...

Now he had his back to some wall, and Deaky's face was in front of him, telling him that the ambulance was going to be there soon. Roger wanted to complain, because he didn't want any ambulance, he was fine, ok? He just needed some time to collect himself, and he shooed the bassist, although his arms weren't answering properly. Roger furrowed his brow. Why weren't his arms answering properly? He was a drummer, for god sake's, he was always in perfect control of his arms. There was blood on his drum set and Roger didn't understand.

The others were glad that he was awake and that his blue eyes seemed to be more focused now, but still, it had been scary. When the ambulance came, John decided to ride with him, to offer some support if he came back completely from whatever worlds he'd been visiting while in his... attack. Freddie and Brian called for a cab, still pretty shaken up. Freddie was trying to think back to what they'd been doing the last couple of weeks to find something, anything that might have caused, while Brian was simply using all his strength and willpower to keep the tears at bay. Roger might be seriously sick, Roger may have some brain lesion or something and they hadn't known. And he knew first hand how awful it could be to be admitted into hospital. Hours passed and you knew nothing, and you were alone and scared and hurting. It was bullshit.

Roger began to understand things more in the ambulance ride. His mouth tasted like blood because he bit his tongue, and his pants were wet. Shit, he'd peed himself, and all the others had seen it. Could this day get any worse? Oh yes, it would, because the hospital personnel would get to see pee-wet pants. He was a rockstar, a serious man, a drummer and singer and songwriter, why was this happening to him?

Getting to the hospital was terrible. All the doctors and nurses were too busy and wanted to get over with each patient as quickly as possible, and were rough with Roger, who was still recovering from a shock such as the one he'd lived. They took John away, and he only got to see Brian and Freddie's sad faces in passing. He angrily demanded that his friends be let in, but no one paid attention. They asked him stupid questions, like what day it was and if he knew where he was.

Of course he was. And he wanted to get out.

Tests were made, and apparently there was no reason for the seizure. There would have to be appointments with neurologists and more tests, but Roger didn't seem to be in immediate danger, so they let his friends in. He would stay eight hours in observation and if nothing went wrong, they would let him go. Roger sighed, happy.

This place was awful, full of moans of sick people, worried and bored relatives and doctors who were exhausted because their shifts never seemed to end. He'd been having fun in the studio with his friends not so long ago, and he cursed himself for doing this, for ruining a perfectly nice evening with hospitals and tests. It was awful.

John, Freddie and Brian came into view, with gentle smiles and matching worried expressions in his eyes. Roger looked awful, with that gash in his forehead (they'd put some little bandages, but still it was red and bright on Roger's otherwise perfect head) and he looked tired and generally uneasy.

“Do you know when I can get out of here?”

The others understood him, of course they did, but they were worried that this could happen again and nobody seemed too concerned, or giving them anything to stop it. The doctors only told them that this was the area of neurologists, and that they just provided urgent care. Well, thanks for nothing.

As the time to leave approached, Roger asked a...sensitive question.

“Did you guys get me some trousers?” He really didn't want to go back home in some peed ones.

“We didn't want to leave you alone...here, but you can have Brian's. He's wearing boxers and we're hoping people will think they're shorts.”

Roger had indeed thought that his tall friend was wearing shorts, as he often did. But he was literally in his underwear.

“Thanks, Bri.”

“Don't mention it.”

From that day on, people started treating Roger with more care, as if he was made of glass. Roger didn't care for it, not a bit, but he understood them. It was nice, in a way, but a reminder of an incident he would much rather forget. After one year, when nothing similar happened again, it was a bit forgotten. Still, whenever they heard a loud noise in the studio, they looked at Roger first, to make sure he was still there, that he hadn't fallen, that he was whole and conscious... And breathed a relieved breath and smiled when he was, and he returned the smile.

Sometimes it was the little things that brought joy, like your friend not having a fucking seizure on the floor.

Little things.

 


	27. Chapter 27

Roger couldn't understand the world around him, as much as he tried. Everything was confusing, everything was blurry and had forgotten everything in the world. He didn't know where he was, how he got there, what was happening or how he was supposed to be feeling. Couldn't see his hand and didn't feel like his limbs were even there.

His head hurt, badly and he could hear himself moaning and complaining although he didn't register the actual process of doing it. He just heard himself, as if he were far away. He moved uncomfortably in the strange bed he was laying on, tossed and turned, but could never comfortable. The entire world hurt too much and his head wasn't functioning enough to rationalise the pain and try to minimise the discomfort. He felt like crap, and he complained. He didn't know why or how was everything so terrible, so uncertain. He looked around and couldn't discern anything, only eyes watching him intently.

Why was everything so wrong, why did his body hurt so much, so very badly? Why were the same thoughts going through his head over and over? His moans got louder and he moved against the hands that were trying to look after him, who were wiping the sweat from his face and neck. He didn't want those hands around him, weakly fought them.

He wanted to move, but couldn't. He wanted to throw up, but couldn't. He was saying something but he didn't understand what. Why did he have a voice?That was not his voice, was it? It couldn't be his voice.

“Mummy? Mummy!”

He wanted his mum. No one else but her. She would make his head all right again and would take him in her arms (because he was a child, of course) and he would be well again, not in pain, not agonising in some hell of flames and confusion. She would make it better.

But she wasn't there, there was just someone who was helping him sit up through the fog and he had no strength to fight them. He was hot and sweaty and somebody's hands were cool on his body, so they were pleasant, nice, something that decreased the fire he felt inside. He fell on the person, boneless, weightless. His head hurt too much, too badly, he didn't want to... He just wanted the pain to end – to let up a bit. He moaned again, tears prickling at his eyes.

He just wanted to feel better. All he wanted. Someone was trying to get him to drink water but he fought them. He called for someone, asked for help, hoped for some relief. There were oddly coloured lights in front of his eyes. He was sweaty and wrong too flushed in his face but too pale everywhere else. Everything was wrong and he was too confused and dazed to make something of it.

While at the beginning he'd been feeling too hot, now he was too cold. He was way too cold now, and no blanket was enough, no fire, nothing. He was so so cold and he trembled in the bed, couldn't stop shivering and he let out something between a moan and a broken sob. Why was he cold? He couldn't understand and the confusion only added to his discomfort and pain. The cold was terrible, it was tearing him apart... Suddenly someone was next to him. Their cold hands were caressing his face and singing something softly. The hurt hurt less. The lights went out.

When he opened his eyes again, Roger could see things. He was on a swimming pool and there was a big beach ball on top of him.

“I want to... I want to play.”

But the ball was only getting further and further and Roger couldn't reach it. He was really upset not knowing why he couldn't reach it, why he couldn't get to it....

And then the pool disappeared and he was in a bed in a cabin and there was an angel with a halo looking at him.

“Roger?” The angel said, and how could it know his name. “Roger do you know where you are? Do you know who I am?”

Roger was afraid because what if the angel had come because of something wrong that he had done? What if the angel took him away?

“No, please, I'll... be good.... Mister Angel, please....”

Roger tried to think about how he got there, but his memory had completely desserted him. He closed his eyes in concentration but nothing came to him, no clue and no way of knowing where he was, or how he'd got there. When he opened his eyes again, the angel looked sad.

“Don't be sad, Mister Angel.”

“I just want you to get better.”

The angel was nice. He and his halo lay next to Roger in the bed, and told the sick man to close his eyes. Roger did so.

When opened them again, his head still hurt like hell, but the world wasn't so blurry anymore. There was someone next to him.

“Brian?”

*

They were snowed in, alone and Roger had a dangerously high fever. Freddie was getting some food and medicine and John had stayed at home with the kids. Roger should have stayed behind too, but he didn't want a simple flu to stop him from having fun. A simple flu. Famous last words.

There was a heavy snowstorm shortly after Freddie left for supplies (he took shelter in a nearby hotel) which meant that all the roads were closed and there was no way for them to find a hospital or get help at their place. It was just Roger and Brian in that cabin, surrounded by snow.

Roger's flu had worsened considerably and his fever had got so bad that now he was delirious. Brian was worried that something irreversible might happen while they were cut off, worried about the consequences this might have without any help and tried to minimise the damage as well as he could. But it was hard.

It was really horrible, seeing Roger so ill, looking at everywhere and not seeing anything with those glassy blue eyes. It was clear to see that he could recognise anything, that he was lost on himself and on his own sickness. He was burning up so very badly but every time Brian tried to do something (put a damp cloth on his forehead, get him to drink some water...) the sick man fought him with weak hands - he wasn't that strong, but he was persistent.

It only made Brian worry more.

Roger called for his mum and the sheer fear and pain in his voice was enough to drive Brian crazy. He hated that there was so little he could do, hated how powerless he felt to help a friend in need. It was like a nightmare.

Then Roger started shivering quite badly and Brian decided that he needed to do something more hand-on about it. Lying on the bed next to Roger would probably mean catching whatever virus he had, but that was not important. What was important was making Roger feel better, when he was looking so dreadfully ill. He had to help him improve – it was his duty.

Brian caressed Roger's face and the blonde fell asleep. Good. Some sleep would probably do him good and it was really distressing to see him awake but delirious, not being able to recognise anything, lost. And burning up so much. Brian hoped that when Roger woke up again this episode would be over, that he would be better. Sadly, that wasn't the case.

Roger still looked terrible, with his cheeks and brow bright red but the rest deathly pale. And now he was seeing things, to make everything worse. He had put his hands up and muttered that he wanted to play (was he hallucinating his drum set?) and then started calling Brian Mister Angel and Brian's heart fell because instead of getting better he was getting worse.

So he just lay next to Roger again, since the last time that seemed to have helped somewhat, and hoped for the best. It was hours of Roger sleeping uncomfortably while Brian monitored any change. And then finally... His fever broke. Roger started sleeping better, and his temperature went down, even if not much.

Brian felt he could breathe again, and fell asleep, looking at Roger's familiar face. When he opened his eyes, blue ones were looking at him. Blue eyes that knew who he was, eyes that knew where they were.

“Brian?”

Roger had recovered his senses. He was back in the land of the living. Brian just smiled and Roger smiled back. The danger and the horror had passed.

 


	28. Chapter 28

It had been building up for a while. Roger's drumsticks shook in his hands and then he'd started biting his nails.

Roger was a very confident person. He knew that he was good at what he did, and he took pride on becoming even better as time went by. He could sing and play drums at the same time, his songwriting skills had been polished as time went by and he was a great musician and showman and even fairly decent at interviews and fan events. Yeah, he was great and only getting greater. But that was part of the problem, wasn't it?

It was becoming a bit too much. Not just the expectations of the bands and all his myriads of fans (gosh, he had so many many fans, and they were passionate, they absolutely adored him and Roger would loath to disappointed) but his own expectations. He expected himself to be faster, better, more creative and more preise in everything he did, while maintaining the good work he'd done until now, of course. And while he loved challenges and giving it his all... The expectations started to weigh on him. They were becoming a bit too much for him to handle.

He began fearing that he wouldn't be enough, that he would mess everything up. Even the most simple things, stuff that he'd been doing for decades, that would be horrible if it went wrong... Roger feared he would start making mistakes, letting people down. That he would too tired, too old, that his level fo performance would start failing and would decline until the others decided that they didn't need him anymore and that the cheers of the fans would turn into aggressive, painful booing.

It was progressive, gradual, like waterdrops making their way on a boulder. Stretched over a period of time, even though he was careful not to show it, not to let anyone know. At first those thoughts seemed irrelevant, the delusions of a paranoid man. He was able to brush them off without much effort, knowing that there was no reason for any insecurity. But then he started getting hyperaware of every little mistake that he did, and seeing everyone's successes as a threat, because it meant that they were better than him, that everyone was much better and they would leave him behind....

Roger tried to get a grip on himself. Really, all of that was stupid. Yeah, it was true that the expectations were really and would only get higher as time went by, bt he was up for the challenge and he could deliver well, he always had.

But still... He started getting more and more anxious before concerts. Knowing that were so many people out there, some of them with signs and pictures of him, waiting to be amazed, to be dazzled, not just with the same old songs but with a performance that was unique and special... He wanted to shine behind Freddie and the others, and but he'd begun feeling that he wasn't enough. That he was stuck in his few tricks, and that even those he would start doing wrong.

The expectations were choking him, becoming his ball and chain. He would practise more and more to feel more confident on his abilities, to reassure himself, and did every trick he read about decreasing anxiety, but still...It was so much, hearing those people, knowing that they had such a high opinion of him, expecting so much, expecting, expecting, always expecting....

And then there were some good news, and it all became a bit too much to process.

“Who's just got another stadium gig booked? We do, darlings! Thousands and thousand of people that will come expressly and exclusively to bask in our delightful company. How awesome is that?”

Roger's mind was stuck on those words as he twirled his drumstick. Thousands and thousands of people. Thousands and thousands of souls, of fans who had paid good money, of fans who had spent hours on the doors to get a good place, thousand and thousands of hearts and mind they weren't just supposed to please, but to amaze. Roger was sure that they would know, that they would be able to tell.

That he wasn't all there, that he was afraid. And they wouldn't care about his distress, they would just want him to deliver perfectly and they wouldn't be satisfied with anything else than magnificence. They had come to expect much from Queen, greatness, intensity, force. And as much as Roger tried to get rid of his insecurity, that pesky little thing that had no reason to be there... It was beyond his control. He couldn't stop thinking all those terrible thoughts, couldn't believe himself when his inner voice said he would do fine.

He wouldn't. It would all come undone.

He... stopped breathing. The world became a mess and he felt faint, wrong, everything was too intense. His heart was beating too fast and it was dizzying, his mouth had gone absolutely dry and as much as tried he couldn't breathe. There was no more air in the room and he wheezed like a fish out of water. His hands were shaking uncontrollably and he couldn't breathe. The realisation that there was no air in the room only made his heart go even faster, and his limbs shake even more. It was horrible.

The others didn't know what to do, how to act. Was Roger really ill? Should they be calling an ambulance? It had all happened so fast, and just after they had announced the stadium gig... John understood, and told the other two to leave them for a while. Brian and Freddie were good people and good friends, but sometimes you needed someone less... emotional. They would someone that wouldn't worry about Roger, just reassured him. Someone that could deal with this type of situation.

“Roger? Roger, look at me.”

John was there. He would know what to do.

“Focus on me. Focus on my voice.”

Maybe if he did so, his heart would stop jumping all up and down the place. Maybe that way it would become easier, more bearable... Maybe John would know how to find air again.

“I am going to count to ten, slowly. I want you to focus on the numbers, ok, Roger? Count with me. If you can.”

The numbers were.... helpful. They followed a steady rhythm and Roger knew what to expect. He thought that four would come after three and it did. He thought seven would come after six and it did. That helped.

“Now I want you to breathe with me. Can you try, Roger?”

Roger tried to breathe at the same pace as John. It was difficult at first, but he managed to get there. The weight on his chest got smaller and smaller as the seconds went by. His hands were still shaking, and his heart was still deafening in his ears, but he felt that he could be... more in control of himself now. He felt like he was back now.

Little by little he started breathing more normally, and the shaking in his hands, although it didn't disappear, it decreased. Roger could think again, could breathe again. He knew he would have to do something about this anxiety issues, but for now... He was happy just being able to breathe. It was enough. He could and would take things one step at a time – and try not to let them build up inside of him. But that could wait. For now he just needed to breathe.

John never told him how he knew how to deal with these things, just smiled when asked. “Tell me if you need me again”, he said and Roger was left with an odd sense of uncertainty, but safety at the same time. Whatever happened, he wasn't alone. He wasn't judged. He wasn't dismissed. It didn't magically solve his problems, but it was a start. Something to remember, something to remind himself when air was running low. He wasn't alone, he wasn't judged.

The expectations could go screw themselves.

 


	29. Chapter 29

The world ceased to exist.

He couldn't see. It felt as if the lights had been turned off, as if he was in complete darkness, but Roger knew that something was wrong.

“I CAN'T SEE” He screamed “I CAN'T SEE!”

There had been a small explosion and all four of them had been injured in some way. John had a concussion, Freddie had sprained his ankle and Brian had broken a couple of ribs. But Roger couldn't know this, because he couldn't see. He didn't know what had happened, he didn't know where the other were, he didn't know anything, only that there had been an explosion and that he couldn't see anything. Everything was darkness, the entire world was an enigma. As much as he opened and closed his eyes, nothing happened. No light, no light at all. Not even the hint of shadows.

He freaked out.

“I CAN'T SEE!”

Everyone got really scared, but they tried to not let Roger freak out too much, even if they were freaking out too. Roger felt that he didn't know where he was, what was going on, and hated it. The put him on a stretcher and he only knew because the paramedics told him. They would touch him and he was always taken by surprise. He wanted to know what was going to happen, and he wanted to know it now.

Could he really get blind forever just because of a bad blow to the head? Was he going to lose his sight forever? His sight had never been the greatest, but still... How was he going to play the drums if he couldn't see? How was he going to party, to look at his fans? Hell, how was he going to maneuver his regular everyday things like getting dressed? He would never be able to match anything, he would never be able to read a sheet of music, or just the newspaper. No, no, please, no.

The world was so dark, it was unknowable. Roger could only hear and imagine, and he was, which was very much unlike him, scared. He didn't know what was happening, where he was. He tried to touch around him, but everything was strange, everything was terribly unfamiliar. He didn't know where he was and he didn't know who was around him. He hated it.

His body was still complaining from the fall, but that wasn't important. Everything faded compared to the fact that he couldn't see. He closed his eyes, fiercely hoping that the next time he opened them, he would be able to see, even if at least some little thing. Something that told him that he would see again, that this had been a momentary thing, that it would be over. Hoping that this was some kind of nightmare.

But it wasn't.

Roger still couldn't see as he was taken for some tests, as nurses and doctors moved him around. He couldn't see the beds, couldn't see where he was, how many people were around him, what were they doing, what do they do to him next. This was just scay, it was unsettling.

Roger was a man who had always been extremely independent. He was a person who had many clear ideas, move around a lot and was very active. Always knew what he wanted to do and worked for it, achieved it. He took the steps without needing much help, he was able to do everything on his own. And now, suddenly.... He had to be guided everywhere, he had to be instructed, and even then he could move around freely because he didn't know where things started or ended.

He longed for an image, anything. This hospital, their studio, his drums, the faces of his friend's. But he could see none of that, and while his frustration and sadness increased he could only hear the voices of strangers carrying him from one test to the other, without giving him any news. He wished that his friends were there, but they couldn't visit until he was done with the tests, and...

“Some of them are still admitted.”

“WHAT? WHAT'S WRONG WITH THEM? WHAT HAPPENED?”

Roger flayed his arms, sat up abruptly.

“I WANT TO SEE THEM.”

His own words made him feel even more frustrated and angrier.

“FUCK! I WANT TO SEE!”

“Calm down, Mr Taylor, or you'll only make things worse for yourself.”

Yes, very helpful. Roger wanted to snap again at the disembodied voice, but thought better of it. He breathed deeply a couple of times, trying to get control of himself, of this horrible dark situation.

“What happened to my friends?”

“You will be able to.... They will be allowed to visit shortly.”

The doctors told him that the blindness was temporary and that they would probably last only a couple of days. It was good to know, but it didn't help deal with the situation as of right now. How would he manage to go back home, eat, shower, if he couldn't see anything, if he couldn't practically move without walking into a wall.

And then, some (metaphorical) light in the darkness. The familiar voices of Freddie, John and Brian, who were, at least, conscious and well enough to visit.

“Darling Roger, we're so relieved that this is only temporary! We would still love you the same if you went blind, of course, but would hate how much you'd suffer. You scared the hell out of us with those screams.”

“Well, I think not being able to see justifies some volume, don't you think?”

“Of course, dear, of course.”

“How are you guys? I can't see anything but they told me that you were admitted.”

“Minor things, darling, just minor things. John here hit his head prettty bad and Brian has his whole torso bandaged. And I can't walk properly because of my ankle – but we'll live.”

“So you're okay? Brian, John? I need to hear your voices.”

“I'm a bit dizzy and my head keeps complaining. But I'll live, Roger. Don't stress yourself.”

“Bri?”

“I'll be fine, Rog. It only hurts when I breathe.”

After that, those three voices became Roger's world. Not only they guided him and helped him navigate the world, but they were able to keep his anxiety at bay when he started to think that he would never recover his sight ever again, when he missed playing, when he bumped into places... His bandamtes weren't his guiding light mostly because there was no light (not a lighthouse then either. Why did all metaphors contain light?) but they were with him the whole time, making sure he didn't stress himself out and helping him when he bumped into walls.

Freddie had practically become his seeing dog (now we are coming into the living room, look everything's pretty tidy, and now I'm going to help you sit, ok) and even commenting on the tv shows (now the bad guy is looking at the protagonist with such sheer intensity... but you're not missing out on anything, darling Rog, they're both pretty homely).

John wasn't around much, as he was supposed to be resting his injury too, but when he was he would often put on some tea and chat up with Roger about what they had been thinking lately. John sometimes helped Roger by writing down ideas the blond had while in the darkness, so they wouldn't be lost forever. Ideas about songs, things he was supposed to do, letters to people. It was nice.

Brian couldn't move much, but Roger enjoyed when the guitarist read to him. Sometimes it was just the newspaper, sometimes magazines, sometimes entire books. And Roger enjoyed it, specially the books, because Brian would make it dramatic, and suddenly the hours, that passed so terribly slowly while in the darkness, had flown by. It was a great way of passing time, and soon Roger was asking Brian to read something more, something more exciting. And Brian would have read aloud the entire lord of the rings trilogy if that made Roger feel better.

Fortunately, there was no need for that. Roger recovered his sight in four days, and felt extremely grateful not just for being able, to move around freely, to read and write... But grateful also for being able to his friends' face again.

 


	30. Chapter 30

Roger had known, when he went to bed that night, that his throat was going to complain, but he didn't know just how much, how bad it would get. He'd been fooling around with some fans, doing all the lap of the gods bits, (aaaaaAAAaaaaAAAAAA) his parts in 39, and going always higher and higher. It had been a fun night and he'd made the most of his voice, used it to its full capacity.

He had obviously imagined that it was going to hurt, even the previous night he'd been feeling wrong, odd. There was something similar to heat in his throat some sort of wave of warmth that shouldn't be there. And it only got worse and worse as the hours passed that night.

When he woke up the next day his throat was on fire. He want to scratch it, badly. but he couldn't because it was an internal damned body part. It hurt like hell, though. He coughed, and coughed and found no relief. He wheezed and made high pitched noises with his breathing, but the only noises that came out of him were just that: breathing, coughing. There was no voice in him anymore. As much as he tried, he couldn't speak, he tried and tried but there was no sound.

Roger knew that this was no big deal. He'd lost his voice before and with some rest and hot teas, you only had to wait a couple of days until you got your voice back. Nothing to concern yourself about. But in all those times, his throat hadn't hurt so much, so badly. Hadn't itched like this. So yeah, he was freaking out a bit.

He wanted to moan about how poorly he felt but no one would listen to him. He was hangover on top of the lost voice, and he just wanted to die an slow and painless death in his couch. But he had no one to complain to and he was alone in his place. He couldn't call people on the telephone because they would only hear silence on the other end of the line. This was an issue. This was a very big issue.

In the end, after much stressing and thinking he was going to be alone and voiceless forever, he wrote a note and rang on neighbours buzzers that "I lost my voice. Please call this number and tell the person on the other end to help me". And they did came and that part was at least solved. People knew that he was voiceless now and would help him. Voiceles. Even the word was terrible.

He had so many things to say! So many songs to sing! Drummers were often forgotten in the back and had very little presence but Roger had worked hard to be noticed, and valued and remembered. Roger wanted more than being a footnote, the other, the forgotten member of Queen. No, he wanted more, so much more.

He wanted to sing all of his songs when they played a concert, he want to one day have a ban where he sang all the songs, he wanted to have a voice, always a voice. But now he had none, and he couldn't even complain about it.

It was hell. His throat was on burning in a most uncomfortable way, and as much as he tried to speak not even hoarse whines came out. He tried to speak but only himself further, and sank deeper in a well of frustration. There was only his own breathing, no sound at all, only more and more frustration.

Even when John and Freddie came and helped him, he hated it, every second of not being able to talk. He had so many words inside of him, about what had happened to him, about how poorly he felt about what a harrowing experience this was.

Part of him wanted to cry but he knew that wouldn't change anything, that it would be useless. Like him. What's a musician without a voice? It hurt not being able to talk going around his friends as a ghost, writing ideas in notebooks and hoping somebody would look his way and notice it. (Ok, so maybe things weren't as dramatic as he was feeling them, but for Roger, every moment without his voice was more and more dread bottling up. It was a lot of dread and anguish. A ot)

Up till then, he was always seen, that made no sense by the time they were read. e was always heard, and he liked to be loud too. He enjoyed taking part in everything, he was an unavoidable ingredient in every conversation. And now he was listening to entire conversations and not being able to participate in and just writing down notes. He missed his voice, he missed his input, even if the others were probably glad to have a bit of rest.

And it wasn't just those terrible things, he also physically felt really bad. Every time he swallowed it hurt, and not just food, just swallowing air or spit it hurt. It was annoying. Itchy and downright painful sometimes, especially when he tried to speak to test the waters. Sodas and cold drinks offered some instant relief for his ravaged throat, but were no good on the long run. So he was supposed to stay away for his own sake, no matter how tempting they were. Freddie and most of all John made sure he didn't hurt himself any further.

They made him a lot of hot teas and foul beverages that were supposed to be good for this kind of condition. They made sure that he didn't talk before he was completely recovered. They gave Roger a little bell to get people's attention, a little chalkboard and chalk and also some notepads and notebooks. So he could express himself as much as possible. So he could still communicate and not feel isolated.

Someone was always with Roger and although he was grateful for the company, it was a constant reminder that he couldn't talk. Roger was afraid that he'd damaged his vocal chords somehow, done something irreversible. He imagined a life in silence and hated it. He'd always been such an extroverted and talky person, he hated the idea of being quiet for so long, it scared him.

But a quick doctor visit told them that there was nothing to worry about, but that it would still take some days until he recovered his voice completely. That was good news, but Roger felt that the wait was going to be eternal. He wanted to talk, to sing, to scream to the world!!! There had been enough silence for a million years.

But the silence did have its good things. Because he couldn't talk, he listened more. He heard John talking about his wife, heard the love in his voice. Brian was trying to fight one of his bouts of sadness, although he hid it well. Freddie had practically the next entire album mapped out. It was amazing the things you could hear when you shut up for a minute.

Still, Roger wanted his voice back, badly. He kept thinking about things he would do when he got it back (all the things he would say! All the backing vocals! All the ideas he'd had during his forced silence!) but knew he couldn't force it too much or he would lose it again. He had to go slowly carefully, continue with the teas and honey....

Fuck that. Roger Taylor would say whatever he wanted. And what he wanted to say, when he woke up a week after the whole incident and felt he could talk was:

“I'M BAAAACK!”

 


	31. Chapter 31

They'd been in the bank, doing some band-related royalty business, when the man had come, dressed in all back and wearing a ski mask, waving a gun, telling everybody to get down. The people in the bank went down quickly, and the man was starting to get his money. Maybe there wouldn't be any need for bloodshed.

But then the police came and surrounded the bank. That was when Roger was spotted.

This seemed to be the perfect person to be his leverage. His face seemed familiar, which meant that he could be a celebrity, someone who the rest of the world would care about. Someone they wouldn't want to die. He had the face of an angel and nice blond hair, making it more difficult for people to want to put him in danger, making them not want to see him hurt. Nobody wanted to see angel boy receive a shot because the police had been too careless, too quick to act. Nobody wanted that.

And so the robber took Roger from the floor and grabbed him, and despite his complaints and thrashing, he pinned the smaller blonde man against his chest, and aimed the gun at his head. Brian couldn't help the small whimper of, “Roger, no!” a hand going towards his long time friend. And so Brian was shot, to make everyone see he meant business, that he was not afraid of using the weapon he'd brought. It was only a leg, so Brian probably wouldn't die from it, but...

The man's breath was warm against Roger's face, as he moved on the criminal's grasp, wanting to get away, help Brian.

“Ok, blondie, now you and me are gonna go out there, and ask the police for some things, all right? And if you try to escape or go against me in any way, I'll put a bullet in your friend's head and then in yours, all right?”

The metal of the gun was cold against his cheek and Roger felt his heart racing. This man could easily kill him if the police didn't comply, and take someone else as his hostage. This man could kill him even if the police complied, to avoid any more loose ends. Or just because he could, and wanted to. He'd clearly enjoyed shooting Brian, and was very much enjoying Roger's pain as he struggled to get out. It was a dangerous man, and Roger was completely under his control. This was so not good.

Outside, there were policemen and cameras and so many more guns. Roger didn't want to look at them (this could end so so badly) and so he focused on the people behind the police and found a familiar face. Freddie, looking terrified at him. Roger tried to go to him, unconsciously, but the man's grip on him only became tighter. Shit.

The gun was now under his chin and it was a horrible feeling. Roger felt useless, trapped in those arms that were going to bruise every place they touched.

“I want two million dollars in small bills in two hours, and a car to go, or I'll kill everyone. Starting with blondie here.”

He moved Roger forward and people's eyes were surprised, horrified.

“Now, even if we would do that, you think we'll be able to get all that money in two hours?” The had negotiator said.

The criminal started running his gun through Roger's face, until he reached the temple. He was very glad that the long legged dude had said this guy's name, because it somehow made everything more personal.

  
“Does poor Roger here have to die for you to start paying attention to me? Now I don't want to hurt him, but I'm not afraid of doing it either, am I, Roger?”

“He shot Brian!” He said to the world, but mostly to Freddie, who gasped.

The gun was again under his chin, and Roger wanted to run, but knew that if he did he would probably end up with a bullet in his skull. The police would be able to shoot the man then, but he would be dead. So he had to stay, endure this man's awful breath and the cold gun on his head.

The police people were talking among themselves and Roger felt that every second was agony. He felt that every movement he did could be the wrong one, and set off that gun, so that it would go off and then there would be pieces of his head splattered in the pavement.

He'd worked so hard to be where he was, been a musician since he was very young, playing multiple instruments, looking after his drums, singing in the choir, studying, writing, taking part in different bands, doing everything that he could to get where he now was... And now all of that could be undone if there was a wrong movement, or if this man he knew nothing about decided that he wasn't useful anymore.

He needed a strategy, a way out, but it was hard to think when you had a gun in your head and all you could hear was his own loud breathing and his heart racing in his ears, as he waited for the cops to decide on something. The man's grip on him hurt, a lot, but he knew he couldn't say anything, do anything. His life was in fucking danger and he couldn't afford to do a single thing in a way to would bother this man. Tricky.

The police reached a decision.

“We can get the money, but we'll need at least four hours. And we'll only get it on the condition that first you release the injured man. Nothing will be done until you do.”

The criminal got angry and threw Roger to the floor, where his head hit the pavement, hard. There was blood and Roger felt dazed. The madman aimed the gun at Roger's heart and cocked it.

“I said two hours. No one will be released. If long legs dies from his wounds it will be on you.”

And then he grabbed Roger from the floor and took him back to the bank.

Roger fell on the floor with a loud noise, and looked at the man in anger. Were they supposed to just wait until this man killed them? The police had the upper hand, this much was clear, and the moment they started closing in on him he would use them as cover, him and Brian and the other people there, and they would pay the price for his crimes. It wasn't fair. Roger could taste blood going down from his head injury that was bleeding quite a lot, and he was pissed. Waiting here would help no one.

He had to do something, before someone ended up dead, before his headache got worse and he wasn't able to think anymore.

“You think you'll get away with this? The police know your voice, how you look everywhere except your face. Whatever car they give you they'll follow. You think you can outrun all of the police cars?”

The criminal punched Roger's face and crossed it, with the hand that had the hand. Great, now his mouth was bleeding too. Roger spit up some blood and despite being bloody all over, looked at his captor defiantly.

“You're not listening! What I'm telling you is to fucking flee while you have the chance, man! I'm sure there's a back door somewhere. If you wait for the money they'll find you, they'll get you. And they make sure that you pay dearly.”

The criminal scoffed under his black woolen mask.

“Yeah? And why is that? What makes you so sure?”

Roger cleaned his mouth with his hand and started getting up.

“I am Roger Taylor. I am in a band, a very popular band, and if you escape, your chase will be very public, because everyone will want to know I'm fine. I have many fans, you see, fans who will make sure you suffer. Who knows, maybe one of them will make sure that you don't even make it to prison.”

The criminal hit Roger on the head with his gun hand again, and Roger fell to the floor, barely able to keep his eyes open. He could only faintly hear the noise of the world around him. The madman, screaming in frustration. The sound of more sirens coming their way.... Somebody cleaning his face?

“You there, Rog?”

“Brian?”

“Hang in there. We'll find a way. We'll get out. Just don't sleep, ok? It's bad to sleep with a head injury.”

“All...right.”

“Just stay with me.”

Brian knew that he was losing Roger, so he needed something to catch his attention, something he would respond to.

“You've been so brave, Roger, it was incredible. If it was me with that gun in my head I would have wept.”

Roger smiled, and blinked heavily.

“Sleepy.”

“Don't fall asleep, Rog. Stay with me.”

The criminal separated them, angrily.

“Enough chatter!”

Brian fell back on the floor and reopened his wound.

“No!”

Roger tried to get away from the man's grip... But then he felt too tired, and everything went dark.

He was out when the man tried to escape through the back and immediately arrested. Out when the ambulances took him and a million photographers tried to capture the moment. Out to feel Freddie's hand holding him while they rode on the ambulance.

When he came back, there was no more bank, no more madman.

Just a hospital room, and Freddie's dark eyes.

“Roger, darling! How are you feeling?”

“M' head is killing me, but I think I'm fine.”

He had some white bandages on his forehead and felt the fog from a lot of pain medication, but he was whole, there were no bullet holes anywhere in him that he could see, and that was a great thing.

“What happened?”

“The man was arrested while trying to escape. People are calling you a hero, saying you gave him the idea of escaping and kind of discouraging from waiting for the money, which meant there was no shootout. You may have saved a lot lifes today just by having a big mouth.?”

Roger smiled in his hospital bed, feeling quite proud of himself.

“How's Brian?”

“He lost a lot of blood, but he'll be fine.”

“Good.”

And then something occurred to him, and he pouted.

“What is it?” Freddie asked.

“I was just bumped in the head! I won't have any cool scars that give me an excuse to tell this story of bravery to all the people who come flirt with me!”

 


	32. Chapter 32

Freddie was having a great day, a really good one, with smiles and friends. He'd just arrived home when the phone rang, and he felt that his heart stopped when he heard the small, broken voice on the other side of the telephone. One of his best friends in the world, sounding like a small child, a frightened, hurt small child.

“Freddie, Fred, please come. Bring bandages.”

This set off a lot of alarm bells in Freddie's head, because this was very unusual, very uncommon. Roger had always been a man who could fend for himself, and didn’t like having to ask for help. Avoided it like the plague. So for him to be calling like this and asking for bandages...

“Roger, what happened? Are you all right? Should I be calling an ambulance, a doctor, anything?”

“Just… Please come, alone. Don’t tell the others.”

Roger's voice didn't sound right and Freddie was almost panicking, because something had clearly happened to Roger and for some reason he was refusing medical attention, only worrying Freddie more, This could be very tricky and very serious too. Roger was so impulsive, so quick, so rash, so energetic and never stopping… He could really have hurt himself, could have maimed himself, he was always doing rash things, sweet big eyed Roger, he had asked for bandages oh, god, oh GOD!

When Freddie arrived he found his friend uncomfortably sitting on the floor next to the telephone, with blood on his face from a split eyebrow that had bled copiously ,and looking like the picture of misery. His shirt was open and there were some places that were red already, and would probably bruise. Still, it didn’t seem to be anything life threatening.

“What exactly happened?” Freddie asked, now that he'd calmed himself a bit.

There was shame colouring Roger’s face, filling all of his blue eyes. This was probably something stupid, something that Roger didn’t want to admit.

“Come on, dear. You know I’m already used to your shenanigans. Your foolishness hardly surprises me anymore.”

Still, Roger didn’t want to admit it. He was Roger Taylor, he was the best drummer ever, he was good looking and smart, he had talent, he had drive… And it was hard to admit just what had happened that had to put him in such a state. So he just muttered, not wanting the words to be in the world, to be heard. So he just muttered, very unlike him and Freddie tried to understand, but couldn’t. He crouched, soft and gentle and smiled at Roger who was still on the floor.

“What was that, darling?”

Roger muttered again.

“Speak up, come on.”

“I fell off the stairs, ok? It’s stupid and I don’t know why it happened, but I fucking fell off the stairs as I was coming down!”

Freddie smiled even wider. They maybe big rockstars with many skills, but at the end of the day, they were just people. Regular and breakable just like any other person.

“Let me heal your boo boos, okay darling? Let me make it better.”

It wasn’t as bad as Freddie had imagined when he’d received the phone call, but Roger was still quite banged up. Apart from the split lip brow had sprained his ankle, his chest was going to bruise badly, and there was blood in his hair from another cut. The poor soul, all ashamed and hurting.

Freddie helped him to a couch, walking slowly as Roger limped painfully and miserably, and putting his feet on the coffee table in front of them, mindful of the injured ankle. The injuries hurt a lot, but how stupidly he’d got them stung even more.

*

The day was going to be great, Roger was convinced. He'd woken up bright if not early, and he was feeling full of energy. He had so many things to do, and he was going to ace all of them. Get some drums for his kit, finish a song, go out with the guys, buy some flowers and visit his mum, He was going to try out those cigs John had recommended, read the paper, maybe watch a film with somebody from his contact list.

And then everything got ruined in the most stupid way possible. He in his eagerness, didn't calculate distances right and got too far on his step, there was nothing but air, and he realised in a second he was going to fall, eyes widening, he lost his balance and feel down the stairs of his still quit modest apartment, injuring himself badly and in several places. He could already feel the blood trickling down his face.

It hurt, and for a moment Roger was stuck, frozen, trying to understand what had happened that yes, it had been real and he'd hurt himself quite badly because he was going too fast. Like some sort of stupid life lesson come true: “if you go too fast, you'll end up hurting yourself”. Roger would flip the bird and maybe utter some curse words at whoever said such boring nonsense, but the truth was, he had hurt himself.

He tried to get up holding on the wall, but his ankle screamed at him, hurting like an absolute bitch, and it was obvious that it was not going to support his weight, which meant that he was there, stuck on the floor, bleeding and unable to move like some some ancient man... This couldn't have happened to him, could it? Roger almost wanted to cry.

Holding back the tears, Roger tried to think. The blood trickling down even to his eyes made this mission more difficult, as well as the pain radiating form every part of his body (his head, his chest that was hurt and red all over, his damn ankle...). It took a while, but after some despair Roger realised that he was all that far from the telephone, which had been fortunately moved to the hall, and decided to call somebody. Somebody who wouldn't make fun of him or judge, somebody that could make it better.

 

*

 

Freddie carefully cleaned the cuts on Roger's head and on his eyebrow, while humming a song. Roger seemed to have calmed down somewhat, but still seemed quite broken up at all the things he couldn't do because he was injured and at having hurt himself in such a stupid way. If he'd just paid a bit more attention...

Freddie tried to make things better, and carefully put some bandages on the head wound and one the ankle, that was starting to swell up. He was slow and gentle, smiling to his friend the whole way. Roger was usually such a lively, energetic person, it was terrible seeing all that sadness in his big blue eyes.

“There, dear, that should do for a while, but you have to call a doctor that will make sure nothing's too serious.”

Roger made a face. He didn't want to share his shameful story with ANYONE.

“Really?”

Freddie nodded.

“We'll tell them to be discreet, don't worry. We can postpone next week's concert saying that our drummer had an accident, which is technically true.”

“And what about the others? I need a cover story, something more dignifying than just falling off the stairs.”

Freddie understood the feeling (they were all proud guys, no one wanted to admit doing such a number on themselves for no reason), but didn't think it was worth lying to his friends.

“You're not that good a liar, Rog. John is going to figure you out immediately. Probably Brian too, since you've known each other since you were practically teenagers.”

Roger let out a long suffering sigh, and fell onto the couch behind him. This had been so stupid. He felt stupid and useless. His left cheekbone was getting red too, and would probably bruise. His poor perfect face.

“Come on, darling, don't look so sad. You can still write and you can watch telly and have people over. I think some rest might be just what you needed.”

Roger tried to smile. It was a nice thought, despite everything.

“I'm going to make tea and call that doctor, all right? Let old Freddie coddle you for a bit.”

Roger's smiled widened. Even if he had bruised and broken himself all over, this could still be a great day.

 


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt in tumblr :)

His head was throbbing. Pulsating.

  
It hurt to think, it hurt to even there, wherever he was. Roger looked around - it was night and he was on an unknown street, next to a bar. There was blood on his forehead and on his lip but he didn't exactly know why he was there. What had happened. It was the middle of the night, he didn't know were he was and he was hurting very badly but didn't know how he got hurt, what exactly had happened.   
  
He only knew that his head hurt, and a lot and that he was fucking injured. When he tried to think back in it, his head hurt even more and felt like throwing up. Fuck. People were screaming inside the pub - someone was fighting. Had he been in the fight, too? He did have a temper, but he'd never been too violent. His hair was caked with blood and just the smell made him even more nauseous.  
  
He felt dizzy and didn't understand anything. Was there anyone around that could help him? He didn't know which way was home and he didn't want to get back in the pub to phone a taxi, because those screams hurt his head even more.  
  
He was... Dazed. Th world didn't seem to make sense, it hurt to think, and he didn't know what he could do, what he should do next. He could hardly recognize his own reflection in the glass in the car in front of him. He vaguely remembered deciding to go for drinks with the guys, but after that... He tried to concentrate, to focus, but the effort only aggravated his nausea and he ended up throwing up on the road in front of him and damn it hurt vomiting too, it hurt his head, his throat, his stomach.   
  
But someone was there to hold his long blonde hair back. Someone hushed him and rubbed comforting circles in his back, and he was finally done, he cleaned Roger's face. His head still hurt as if it was trying to murder him, but at least now he wasn't alone. The figure took him out of the road, and away from the shouting of the bar. Thanks gods. His cracked head couldn't stand all that noise.   
  
Roger, blue eyes shining unfocused in the night, tried to figure out who was with him. Big hands. Big hair.   
  
"Brian?"   
  
"How are you feeling, Rog? I called a cab to get you to a hospital. I thought that maybe an ambulance was too much, but you definitely need to get that injury looked at."  
  
Roger fell back in Brian, and closed his eyes. His head was still an absolute nightmare, but knowing that he wasn't alone helped a lot. He was so grateful for Brian he could cry.   
  
" What happened?" He managed to get out, even if he was slurring his words quite badly.   
  
"You don't remember? You went out of the bathroom and got caught in the middle of the bar fight. Someone fist punched you into the wall in front of you."  
  
"oooh. Sounds familiar. The.. Others?"  
  
"They left."  
  
"But not you."  
  
"Someone has to watch over you, right?"  
  
Roger wanted to say that he could perfectly well take care of himself, thank you very much, but his nausea chose that moment to manifest itself and he throwing up again, so... In that moment he was really glad someone had stayed to watch over him, clean his face, called the cab.   
  
The taxi arrived shortly after, and Brian helped Roger inside it. He fell asleep or passed out in Brian's shoulder, hard to tell which, and suddenly he was surrounded by white walls and there were lights in his eyes and strangers asking him what his name was. It all went in a daze, blurry, odd.  
  
The night was strange too, in that unknown place, getting up so often in such an unfamiliar darkness. Fortunately, the next day things were better. His head was bandaged like in some old timey cartoon, and the place He was given some pain medication and he could process his surroundings better. Reality was sharper. So was Brian's face in front of him.  
  
"Hey." Even words flowed better now. It would take a while until his head stopped hurting, but he understood what was going on around him much better.   
  
"Feeling any better?" Brian said, with a little smile.  
  
"Yeah. Headache is still quite horrible, but I think I'll live. Thanks for being there for me, Bri. I honestly don't know what would have happened to me if you hadn't been there."  
  
"No thanks needed, Rog. Whatever happens, you know you have me."  
  
Roger smiled, a tired, sleepy, injured smile, but an honest one nonetheless.  
  
"Aren't I lucky."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Prompts closed for a bit, because I have a list as long my arm :)
> 
> Hoping to hear from you! Please do comment if you liked it!


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